kC^Hibri?}. 


-.Ifesfc.    v__ 

1 

GIFT   ©F 
Prof.    C.A.   Kofoid 


=~£«l 


X hree   Gentlemen   from 
New   Caledonia 


By 

R.  D.  Hemingway 

and 

Henry  de  Halsalle 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 

Gbe    Umicfcerbocfter    ipress 

1915 


Copyright,  1914 
G.  ?.  PJTXAM'S    SONS 


-tyu-tf* 


TIbe  iknfcfcerbocfecr  press,  Hew  Jt?orfe 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 


PAGE 


CHAPTER 

I.— At  the  " River  of  Passing  Souls"         i 

H  — the  Coming  of  Captain  Black     .       16 

III.— Jean  Pays  off  a  Score  .         .       34 

BOOK  II 

I.— The  Pink  Sunbonnet     ...       46 

II. — George  Heron       ....       66 

III. — Room  No.  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire      88 

IV.— At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street    .         .116 

V, — Information  Received   .         .         .     136 

VI.— What  Happened  at  Seckley  Cottage 

at  Half-Past  Ten  .         .162 

Vii.— Van  Langenberg,  Shipper  of  Wines 

and  Spirits        .         .         .         .184 

VIII.— The  Partners         .         .         .         .209 

IX.— The  Picnic  on  the  Island     .         .     231 


iv  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

X. — Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration          .  252 

XL — Marking  Time — and  One  Windpipe  269 

XII. — Gaspard    Regains    What    He    Im- 
agined He  Had  Lost        .         .288 

XIII. — Honour     (Among    Thieves)    at    a 

Discount  .         .         .         .312 

XIV. — With  Both  Hands          .         .         .  335 

XV. — Kit   Polliter    "Sells  a  Pup"   to 

M.  Faverol      .         .         .         .  351 

XVI. — It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades         .  378 

XVII. — Faverol  Learns  the  "  Big  Lesson  "  400 

XVIII. — Andre  Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt     .  418 

Afterword 434 


Three  Gentlemen  from 
New  Caledonia 


Three  Gentlemen   from 
New  Caledonia 


BOOK  I 
CHAPTER  I    v. 


AT  THE  "RIVER  OF  PASSING  SOULS " 


K  TOT  far  from  Mueo  Bay,  on  the  west  coast  of 
*  ^  New  Caledonia,  a  small  river,  too  insignific- 
ant to  own  a  name  on  the  map,  having  forsaken 
its  swift  descent  through  many  a  sombre  ravine, 
winds  its  way  seawards  through  a  bottle-shaped 
strip  of  inky  mud  swamp. 

At  its  mouth,  the  stream  is  cleft  very  curiously 
by  a  tall  pinnacle  of  ironstone,  a  gaunt  and  lonely 
sentinel,  which  has  there  stood  guard  through 
countless  centuries.  An  excellent  "mark,"  when 
used  in  conjunction  with  the  cone-like  peak  of 
Mount  Kopeto  rising  far  inland,  for  the  guidance 
of  a  mariner  seeking  the  channel  entrance. 


2     At  the  " River  of  Passing  Souls" 

But  its  possible  utility  is  wasted.  No  one  seeks 
to  enter  the  little  river,  for  the  sea  thereabouts  is 
too  shallow  for  the  navigation  of  any  but  very 
small  craft;  and,  three  miles  out,  a  never-ending 
reef  of  coral  would  seem  effectually  to  bar  a  direct 
approach. 

From  inland,  access  to  the  mouth  of  the  river 
is  well-nigh  impossible.  The  lofty  walls  of  the 
ravines  nse  sheer,  and,  though  widening  out  some- 
what, they  continue  on  both  sides  of  the  swamp 
and  converge  again  at  the  foreshore. 

By  day,  even  the  natives  of  New  Caledonia  can 
hardly  be  persuaded  to  approach  the  vicinity;  by 
night  never,  for  the  place  is  taboo.  The  spirits  of 
their  dead  (so  the  natives  aver)  troop  down  the 
little  river  on  their  way  to  their  final  resting-place, 
that  vast  Somewhere  deep  in  the  mysterious  ocean. 

Did  not  life  come  out  of  the  womb  of  the  ocean? 
says  the  old  superstition;  then  shall  not  it  surely 
return  to  the  place  of  its  birth? 

The  natives  of  New  Caledonia  answer  in  the 
affirmative.  For  them  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow 
is  no  poetic  fancy;  it  is  present  in  form  and  sub- 
stance— a  little  river.  They  call  it  the  "  River  of 
Passing  Souls.*' 

Towards  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century 
(what  time  our  story  opens),  on  a  certain  night  in 


At  the  " River  of  Passing  Souls"      3 

March,  a  native,  armed  with  club  and  throwing- 
spear,  came  flitting  through  the  scrub  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  little  river. 

The  savage  charms,  hideous  relics,  with  which 
he  was  adorned,  proclaimed  him  a  "wizard,"  over 
whom  the  evil  spirits  known  to  haunt  the  place 
could  wield  no  power.  Nevertheless,  the  wizard 
was  uneasy,  as  his  frequent  backward  glances 
plainly  showed. 

Now  he  would  lurk  behind  the  bleached  bole 
of  some  giant  eucalyptus  tree;  then,  when,  for  a 
while,  the  billowy  monsoon  clouds  flung  a  veil 
across  the  face  of  the  brazen  moon,  he  would  dart 
eerily  across  the  open  spaces,  emulating,  as  it  were, 
the  great  bats  whirling  and  twisting  overhead. 

Having  reached  the  out-cropping  rocks  on  the 
heights  above  the  little  river,  the  wizard  leaped 
lightly  from  point  to  point,  and  presently  he  gained 
the  edge  of  the  last  narrow  ravine.  There,  while 
the  moon  sank  lower  and  lower  towards  her  cave 
in  the  illimitable  ocean,  he  crouched  motionless  in 
the  shadow  of  a  gully,  and,  leaning  over,  peered 
down  into  the  chasm. 

Suddenly  the  watcher  sprang  upright  and  poised 
aloft  his  throwing-spear.  Far  beneath  him,  ap- 
parently wading  down  the  bed  of  the  river,  three 
"spirits"  were  emerging  from  the  gloom  of  the 


4     At  the  " River  of  Passing  Souls" 

ravine,  their  naked  shoulders  glistening  above  the 
level  of  the  swart  and  sullen  water. 

Zip! 

The  spear  flashed  into  the  river  scarce  two 
feet  in  front  of  its  mark.  A  faint,  derisive  cry- 
arose  from  the  depths.  With  an  answering  yell 
of  rage  the  wizard  swung  high  his  club,  then  flung 
it  with  lightning  rapidity  downwards.  He  craned 
forward  to  mark  its  progress,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  head  of  one  of  the  "spirits"  fell  forward; 
then  the  sky  became  dark. 

When  next  the  lantern  of  the  night  flung  forth 
her  rays,  the  wizard  was  far  away,  and  the  water- 
walkers  were  almost  abreast  of  the  solitary  rock- 
sentinel  at  the  river's  mouth.  Here,  instead  of 
passing  to  their  final  resting-place  in  the  orthodox 
manner,  the  three  "spirits"  turned  towards  the 
indigo  shadows  under  the  south  bank  of  the  river. 
Now,  quite  close  together,  only  their  heads  were 
visible,  while  beyond  them  a  stout  limb  of  Kauri 
pine  bobbed  up  to  the  surface  and  floated  slowly 
through  the  gap  towards  the  "tumble"  on  the  tiny 
bar  outside. 

The  tide  was  low,  leaving  bare  a  wedge  of  slip- 
pery rocks.  With  many  a  stumble  the  "spirits" 
gained  a  short  stretch  of  dry  sand  lying  beyond ;  a 
small  curved  bay,  as  it  were,  on  the  seashore  at  the 


At  the  "River  of  Passing  Souls"      5 

base  of  the  cliff;  and  it  might  have  been  seen  that 
one  of  them  was  being  carried  by  the  others,  who 
appeared  all  but  exhausted  themselves. 

Staggering,  but  as  if  their  route  were  well  known 
to  them,  they  at  length  reached  a  narrow  ledge 
sloping  obliquely  up  the  face  of  the  cliff. 

As  the  twain  ascended  with  their  burden  the 
rough  track  deepened,  and  finally  ended  abruptly 
at  a  small  egg-shaped  orifice  which  led  into  a  spa- 
cious cave.  A  few  moments  later  the  "spirits" 
had  disappeared  from  sight. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  cave,  upon  a  bank  of  fine, 
velvety  sand,  lay  three  men.  To  one  of  them  sleep 
had  refused  its  welcome  solace.  Prone  upon  his 
back,  he  stared  upwards  into  the  iron-lidded  dark- 
ness, listening  enviously  to  the  deep  breathing  of 
his  two  companions. 

Every  now  and  again,  the  sleeper  farthest  away 
from  him  would  break  out  into  a  rasping  cry  or  a 
smothered  oath  that  culminated  in  a  snarl  as  of 
some  wild  beast.  Then — silence;  and,  without, 
the  restless  sea-sounds  would  grow  deeper  like  the 
soft  diapason  of  a  cathedral  organ. 

Several  times  during  the  tedious  hours  the 
sleepless  man  had  left  the  cave  and  crouched  on 
the  ledge  outside.     There,  heedless  of  the  extreme 


6     At  the  "  River  of  Passing  Souls  " 

beauty  of  the  tropical  night,  the  enticing  murmur 
of  lazily  breaking  wavelets,  the  million  flashing  and 
sparkling  eyes  of  a  phosphorescent  ocean,  he  had 
anathematised  the  tardiness  of  dawn,  had  ached 
for  generous  sunlight  to  warm  him,  but  more 
especially  for  light  that  would  quench  the  long 
wavering  glimmer  of  milky  fire  marking  the 
smother  on  the  reef  three  miles  away. 

Would  day  never  break,  and  reveal  clearly  what 
lay  on  the  horizon  far  beyond?  Incessantly  the 
same  question,  the  same  fruitless  longing,  until  the 
man's  eyes  burned  with  their  futile  straining,  and 
the  cool  monsoon  chilling  his  naked  body  drove 
him  back  again  to  the  warmer  region  of  the  cave. 

For  the  sixth  time  he  crawled  in  through  the 
narrow  cave-mouth  and  stretched  himself  on  the 
dry  sand;  then,  finding  sleep  still  impossible,  he 
leaned  over  and  gently  roused  the  man  next  to 
him. 

"Kit!"  he  whispered.  "Kit—.  Quiet,  man," 
— for  the  startled  sleeper  had  seized  him  roughly 
by  the  arm, —  "it  is  I?" 

"Huh!  I  thought —  you,  Andre? —  Curse  that 
little  screaming  animal !"  He  made  a  motion  as 
if  to  strike  the  noisy  dreamer  at  his  side;  but 
his  companion,  divining  his  intention,  stopped  the 
blow,  saying  quickly : 


At  the  ''River  of  Passing  Souls' '      7 

"Leave  him  alone.  The  more  sleep  he  gets  the 
better  it  will  be  for  him — and  for  us. " 

"Better  for  us  if  we'd  let  him  wash  out  to  sea — 
and  hell,"  growled  the  other.  "He  was  mad 
enough  before;  and  that  crack  on  the  head  won't 
make  him  any  saner. " 

' '  Bah !  It  was  only  a  glancing  blow — the  handle 
of  a  club,  I  fancy;  a  parting  present  from  our 
terpsichorean  friend  with  the  thigh  bones  round  his 
middle."  Andre  spoke  with  a  remarkably  refined, 
cultured  accent,  in  great  contrast  to  his  compan- 
ion's uncouth  tones.  "A  case  of  Timeo  Danaos 
et  dona  ferentes,  eh,  Kit?"  he  added  quizzingly. 
"Unless  you  have  forgotten  your  classical  'tags. ' " 

"Blast  him  for  a  bad  shot,  anyway,"  grumbled 
Kit. 

"None  of  that!"  Andre  took  him  up  sharply. 
"You  seem  to  forget  we  three  are  bound  together 
by  a  compact;  and  I  am  superstitious  enough  to 
believe  that  my  last  chance  of  luck  would  vanish  if 
we  broke  faith." 

"Who's  talking  about  breaking  faith?  You 
know  as  well  as  I  do,  we  could  have  escaped  twice 
if  Jean  hadn't  bungled,  curse  him. " 

"He  has  suffered  for  it." 

"So  have  I," — bitterly, — "though  you  always 
managed  to  save  your  skin." 


8      At  the  " River  of  Passing  Souls" 

"Sneers,  Kit?  Why?  How  would  it  have 
been  if  I  had  lost  what  sham  liberty  I  had  gained 
by  my  good  conduct?  Should  we  be  here  now,  if  I 
had  been  sent  back  to  the  nickel  mines,  as  you 
were,  or  to  the  hulks,  as  Jean,  there,  was?  I  know 
both,  and  what  you  have  endured."  Then,  after 
a  short  silence:  "Have  the  years  we  have  been 
apart  destroyed  your  trust  inme?" 

"No.  If  I  mistrusted  you,  I'd  have  got  at  you 
somehow — you  know  it — same  as  I  mean  to  get  at 
Courtois,  if  ever  we  get  clear  of  this  damned  island. " 

"We  shall  do  so.' ' 

"No  trust  in  you?"  the  other  went  on.  "Jean 
and  I  have  got  to  have  trust — blind  dog's  trust — 
and  don't  you  know  it !  For  a  week  we've  followed 
you.  And  you  know  what  sort  of  a  holy  seven 
days  it's  been,  and  what  have  you  told  us? 
Nothing!" 

"After  the  two  previous  disasters  I  preferred  to 
keep  my  own  counsel.  I  told  you  I  would  bring 
you  to  a  place  where  a  vessel  would  be  waiting  to 
take  us  off.  Is  that  nothing — after  nearly  twenty 
years  in  this  hell-hole?" 

1 '  Place ! ' '  Kit  took  him  up.  His  nerves  seemed 
all  on  edge.     "Place!     A  grave,  more  like!" 

"There  is  just  such  a  possibility,"  returned 
Andre,  in  level  tones. 


At  the  " River  of  Passing  Souls"      9 

"How  do  you  know  this  is  the  place ?" 

"I  am  certain  of  it." 

"You're  mighty  cocksure  " — insolently. 

Andre  made  no  reply,  and  his  silence  and  studied 
self-control,  which  no  hardships,  dangers,  or  pangs 
of  hunger  ever  seemed  capable  of  breaking  down, 
roused  his  companion  to  exasperation. 

"Rot  your  high  and  mightiness,"  he  began. 
"Can't  you  climb  down  off  your  pedestal  for 
a  bit  and  give  us  some  explanation  of  it  all? 
Can't " 

He  stopped  abruptly.  Andre  had  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

"Not  so  loud,"  he  said  calmly.  "You  forget. 
I  never  give  explanations.  And  when  we  resume 
our  former  relationship  I  shall  never  'explain* 
anything — ever. " 

There  was  a  long  pause,  fraught  with  the  silent 
antagonism  of  two  wills.  The  weaker  man  broke 
the  silence,  and  when  he  spoke,  a  curious  inflec- 
tion in  his  voice  seemed  to  carry  with  it  not  only 
absolute  submission  to  his  listener,  but  a  seeming 
reluctant,  rough  affection  even. 

"The  same  Andy,"  growled  Kit,  with  an  oath. 
"The  same  'Mister  Masterful.'  Cursed  if  I  know 
why  we  ever  put  up  with  it.  You're  not  like  the 
rest  of  us.     All  right.     I  give  in. " 


io    At  the  " River  of  Passing  Souls" 

"I  accept  the  conditions,'*  said  Andre,  evincing 
but  little  enthusiasm  or  satisfaction. 

"Andy?" 

"Yes?" 

"S'posin'  the  vessel  doesn't " 

"The  vessel  will  be  here  at  dawn." 

"But — supposin'?"  Kit  insisted. 

"Patience." 

"It  won't  fill  our  stomachs." 

"There  are  lizards,"  said  Andre.  "For  the 
present  our  only  danger  is  the  biped  devils  who 
have  once  or  twice  nearly  killed  and  eaten  us  in 
the  last  few  days.  Our  dear  friend  the  Governor 
of  this  accursed  hole  already  deems  us  dead  and 
eaten,  and  I've  no  doubt,  after  the  special  care 
he  has  always  bestowed  on  us,  he  is  glad  to  be 
relieved  of  our  responsibility.  For  the  rest,  if  the 
schooner  fails  us  I  shall  think  my  luck  has  de- 
serted me  for  ever,  and  then " 

"Like  that,  is  it?"  muttered  Kit  gloomily. 
"Well,  you're  not  the  only  one.  I  don't  know 
what's  kept  me  from  stretchin'  myself  all  these 
years." 

"You  don't  know!"  replied  Andre  scornfully. 
"Don't  you?  Well,  Jean  does.  Listen  to  him. 
He's  been  dreaming  he's  got  Courtois  by  the 
throat  all  night." 


At  the  " River  of  Passing  Souls"    u 

Kit  muttered  an  inaudible  curse,  and  for  a  while 
the  two  men  lay  quiet,  listening  to  the  horrible 
sounds  uttered  by  their  sleeping  comrade. 

"Say,  Andy,"  Kit  said  doubtfully,  "what's  it 
going  to  be  if  we  get  clear?  The  same  old  busi- 
ness?'* 

"What  else  is  open  to  us?"  retorted  Andre. 
"Honesty?  Bah!  What  do  we  owe  the  world? 
It  is  in  our  debt — a  million  times  more  so  now — 
and  we  will  exact  every  sou,  my  friend.  Every 
sour 

"We'll  be  a  bit  out  of  date, "  suggested  Kit. 
Andre  laughed  softly. 

"Give  me  a  month, "  he  said,  "in  Paris,  Rotter- 
dam, Vienna,  London — any  of  the  old  haunts — 
and  I'll  know  all  there  is  to  know.  And  if  the 
Little  Dutchman  is  still  alive  and  in  business,  it 
will  be  all  the  easier " 

"Who?" 

"Van  Langenberg. " 

"Huh!     You'll  never  find  him  again." 

Andre  let  the  remark  pass  without  comment. 

"How  about  living,  meanwhile?"  growled  Kit. 

"Work!  Yes,  honest  work — if  you  can  get  it. 
You've  learnt  how  to  work  in  this —  Dawn!"  he 
cried,  breaking  off.     "Dawn  at  last!" 

The  pitch  blackness  had  become  indigo,  and  at 


12    At  the  "River  of  Passing  Souls" 

the  far  end  of  the  cave  the  outline  of  the  buttress  of 
rock  veiling  the  opening  was  barely  perceptible. 
With  one  accord  both  men  scrambled  hurriedly 
on  hands  and  knees  across  the  cave,  and  squeezed 
past  the  buttress  to  the  ledge  outside.  The  sun 
had  risen  with  tropical  suddenness,  flooding  land 
and  sea  with  an  ineffable  radiance. 

Cursing  their  eyes  for  blinking  in  the  unac- 
customed light,  they  gazed  westward — out  over 
the  now  grey-green  waters  at  their  feet,  where  the 
high  cliffs  yet  cast  their  chill,  hard,  morning 
shadows — out,  where  the  first  rays  of  a  new-born 
sun  danced  joyous  and  sparkling,  tinging  with 
rainbow  hues  the  interminable  film  of  spray-flung 
mist  suspended  over  the  reef  and  completely  veil- 
ing the  horizon  beyond. 

"We  are  in  hell!"  suddenly  whispered  Kit, 
in  a  hoarse  voice.  His  face  was  livid,  and  he  was 
shaking  as  with  an  ague.  Another  moment  and  his 
nerves,  strained  to  breaking  point  by  his  recent 
privations,  and  now  by  the  tension  of  hope  unful- 
filled, would  go  all  to  pieces. 

"The  vessel  is  there, "  muttered  Andre,  point- 
ing seawards.  "We  cannot  see  her,  but  she  is 
there." 

"Mother  of  Jesus,  we  are  in  hell!"  cried  Kit 
again.     He  began  to  laugh  weirdly.     Flinging  his 


At  the  " River  of  Passing  Souls"    13 

long  arms  upwards,  he  sprang  towards  the  lip  of 
the  ledge. 

Like  lightning  Andre  swung  round,  gripped 
him,  and,  with  amazing  strength,  dashed  him  back 
into  the  cave-mouth. 

"Fool!-"  he  cried. 

11  Let's  swim  away,"  raved  the  demented  man. 
Suddenly  he  thrust  Andre  aside,  and  dashed  head- 
long down  the  narrow  ledge. 

Andre  raced  after  him,  overtook  him  on  the 
sand  almost  at  the  water's  edge,  and  tripped  him 
up ;  and  as  the  crazy  man  attempted  to  regain  his 
feet  Andre  struck  him  a  tremendous  blow  on  the 
point  of  the  jaw.  Kit  quivered  for  a  second,  then 
collapsed,  insensible. 

Andre  stood  over  the  fallen  man,  eyeing  him 
grimly;  then,  hearing  a  shout  behind  him,  he 
wheeled  round  towards  the  cliff. 

The  third  occupant  of  the  cave,  aroused  by 
the  cry  of  "Dawn,"  had  emerged  on  the  ledge. 
For  a  moment  or  two  he  had  stared,  blinking  sea- 
wards, then  he  caught  sight  of  the  others,  at  the 
very  instant  that  Andre  struck  Kit  down. 

With  a  shout  he  tore  down  the  ledge  and  across 
the  little  bay  of  sand,  his  pale  and  blood-smeared 
face  contorted  with  fury. 

"Leave  him   to   me,   guv'nor!"   he  screamed. 


14    At  the  " River  of  Passing  Souls" 

"111  settle  him!     Let  me  get  at  him,  guv'nor!" 

Andre  thrust  the  excited,  gesticulating  little 
man  backwards  roughly.  "Don't  be  an  idiot, 
Jean,"  he  said  calmly. 

"He  turned  on  you,  guv'nor !  Let  me  deal  with 
the  swine!" 

"He  did  not,"  retorted  Andre.  "If  you  touch 
him,  I  shall  serve  you  the  same. " 

"Oh,  all  right,  guv'nor,"  Jean  whined;  "don't 
— M  He  stopped.  "Done  for  him,  guv'nor?" 
There  was  a  hideous  suggestion  in  his  tones. 

Andre  started.  For  a  brief  moment  it  seemed  as 
if  he  would  fell  to  the  ground  the  unwholesome 
little  creature  who  stood  plucking  at  his  fingers  and 
casting  furtive  glances  at  his  comrade's  lean, 
naked,  motionless  figure. 

Then  Andre  let  his  arms  fall  to  his  side.  ' '  Jean, ' ' 
he  said  with  biting  scorn,  "you  are  not  exactly  a 
minister  of  the  Gospel.  You  are  unfit  for  decent 
society,  and  your  face  is  bloody;  it  offends  me. 
Kindly  go  and  wash  it."  He  pointed  to  the  sea, 
and  stooped  unconcernedly  to  attend  to  Kit,  who 
now  began  to  show  signs  of  recovery. 

Jean  winced  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow,  and 
skulked  away  to  do  as  he  was  bidden. 

Like  most  undersized  and  grotesque  men,  Jean 
was  inordinately  vain.     From  no  one  but  Andre 


At  the  "  River  of  Passing  Souls' '    15 

would  he  have  swallowed  such  an  insult;  but  the 
little  man  had  that  curious  attachment  for  his 
grim  " chief"  which  is  born  of  absolute  fear,  the 
fear  of  a  hound  for  his  brutal  master. 

Of  this  Andre  was  fully  aware.  Innately  a 
leader  of  men,  he  had  never  been  afraid  to  probe 
the  weak  spots  in  the  armour  of  his  subordinates. 

Some  men  will  only  give  allegiance  to  authority 
that  is  brutal  and  without  compassion,  and  to 
them  consideration  is  but  a  sign  of  weakness,  to 
be  repaid  by  instant  insubordination. 

Suddenly  Jean  gave  vent  to  a  loud  shout.  The 
exuberance  of  joy  expressed  in  the  cry  and  the 
frenzied  extravagance  of  his  gestures  could  have 
but  one  meaning. 

Andre  spun  round  and  shot  a  swift  glance 
seawards.  For  the  moment  he  saw  nothing  but 
sea,  and  the  impenetrable,  mocking  film  of  mist 
floating  over  the  distant  reef.  Then  he,  too, 
uttered  a  loud  shout,  which  only  served  to  show 
how  rigidly  he  had  been  suppressing  his  own 
anxiety.  Stooping  quickly,  he  seized  Kit  under 
the  arms  and  compelled  him  to  stand  upright. 

"Look!"  he  cried  in  triumph. 

Within  a  mile  of  them,  just  beyond  the  edge  of 
the  shadow  cast  by  the  cliffs,  a  boat  was  being 
propelled  rapidly  towards  the  shore. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  COMING  OF  CAPTAIN  BLACK 

QILENCE  fell  upon  the  three  naked  men  stand - 
^  ing  motionless  at  the  water's  edge.  The  mon- 
soon wind  had  died  away  into  a  breathless  calm; 
the  lagoon,  gently  heaving,  its  surface  changing  like 
shot  silk,  now  green,  now  blue,  lay  placid.  As  if 
wearied  of  everlastingly  breaking,  petty  wavelets 
tinkled  on  the  yellow  sand,  so  faintly,  so  languidly, 
that  in  contrast  the  far-off  clamour  of  the  ocean 
swell  still  surging  on  the  reef  was  emphasised  and 
seemed  close  at  hand. 

A  stone's  throw  from  the  shore,  the  boat,  a  small 
white-painted  gig,  swept  a  graceful  curve  and 
headed  seawards;  but  at  a  quick  gesture  from  the 
helmsman  the  two  stolid,  brown-skinned  rowers 
(Kanakas,  perchance,  from  some  distant  palm- 
studded  island)  ceased  pulling,  dipping  their  oars 
to  keep  the  gig  stationary. 

The  man  seated  in  the  stern  sheets  rose  heavily 
and  stood  balancing  himself  with  the  tiller  gripped 

16 


The  Coming  of  Captain  Black       17 

between  his  knees.  Red  striped  pyjama  trousers 
and  a  white  drill  coat,  unbuttoned  all  the  way 
down,  revealing  a  blue-edged  flannel  singlet,  cov- 
ered his  huge  body ;  while  a  large,  dilapidated  sun- 
helmet  shaded  his  mahogany-coloured  visage.  It 
was  noticeable  that  the  barrel  of  a  rifle  peeped  over 
the  gunwale  of  the  gig. 

At  the  sight  of  the  three  naked  figures  in  front 
of  him  the  newcomer  appeared  not  a  little  per- 
plexed, and  for  a  while  his  gaze  darted  questioningly 
first  to  Jean,  ankle-deep  in  the  water,  hesitating 
to  advance,  now  to  the  other  two  standing  side  by 
side  on  the  dry  sand.  Then  the  huge  being  began 
to  chuckle,  finally  to  burst  into  uncontrolled 
laughter,  swaying  from  side  to  side,  until  the  little 
craft  rocked  perilously  beneath  him. 

"Captain  Black ?"  Andre  called  out  suddenly. 

The  man  in  the  gig  steadied  himself,  lowered  his 
heavy  eyebrows,  and  endeavoured  to  appear 
serious.  Lifting  his  helmet,  he  bowed  low  in 
mock  courtesy;  but,  as  if  something  in  Andre's 
steady  gaze  disconcerted  him,  he  sought  hastily 
in  his  pockets  for  a  yellow  bandanna,  and  made  a 
show  of  mopping  his  shiny  forehead. 

"Captain  Black? "  repeated  Andr6. 

"Ay.  Black — or  White,"  the  man  jerked  out 
in  a  raucous  bass  voice,  "as  the  case  may  be. 


1 8       The  Coming  of  Captain  Black 

Sometimes  one,  sometimes  t'other — but  never 
Green — mark  ye  that.  Names  don't  signify  much 
in  these  latitoods.  Ye'd  agree  there,  I  reckon." 
Plainly  he  was  marking  time,  waiting  for  a  lead. 

"  Black,  then,  on  this  occasion, "  suggested 
Andre  leisurely,  as  if  he  had  all  day  before  him  for 
a  conference.  "And  we  might  be  equally  correct 
in  saying  'of  the  schooner  Ninette?  though  I  do 
not  see  her." 

"Not  likely  to,"  retorted  the  big  man;  "but 
she's  out  there  for  all  that,"  jerking  his  thumb 
in  the  direction  of  the  reef,  and  adding  deliberately, 
"And  the  name  you  mention  ain't  a  bad  'un  for  a 
schooner.  Not  that  it  signifies,  as  I  said  before. 
A  pot  of  paint,  y'know,  and — "  raising  a  great 
fist  in  imitation  of  a  painter  handling  a  brush. 
"Ay.     She's  out  there,"  he  repeated  abruptly. 

"Schooner  Ninette;  Captain  Black  in  com- 
mand, "  Andr6  took  him  up  in  level  tones.  "  Port 
of  registry?"  He  spoke  like  a  modern  Board  of 
Trade  official,  as  though  the  matter  was  not  of  the 
slightest  interest  to  him.  Kit  and  Jean  stared  at 
their  spokesman  with  uncomprehending  eyes. 

"  On  a  job  like  this  it  don't  signify, "  said  Captain 
Black  emphatically.     Jean  uttered  a  furious  oath. 

"Silence,  Jean!  Port  of  registry  not  stated," 
Andre  continued.    "From  Noumea — bound  to — " 


The  Coming  of  Captain  Black       19 

"Ay.  Noumea's  right.  But  where  was  it 
you'd  say  she  was  bound  to  now?" 

"That  signifies  much?" 

"By  Davy,  it  do!"  The  big  man  in  the  gig 
wagged  his  head  and  again  made  much  use  of  his 
handkerchief;  then  he  flourished  it  in  the  sup- 
posed direction  of  the  schooner.  "Not  victualled 
for  a  voyage  round  about,"  he  said  weightily; 
"nor  manned.  Haven't  got  a  mate.  Left  him 
behind  on  the  beach.  Best  do  these  jobs  single. 
Kanakas,  ye  understand,  don't  count — leastways 
these  galoots  don't — "  He  glared  aggressively  at 
his  crew,  daring  them  to  dispute  his  last  state- 
ment ;  then  he  turned  round  again,  and  waited  for 
Andre's  next  communication  with  the  self-satisfied 
air  of  a  man  who  has  given  proof  of  his  ability 
to  deal  with  a  problem  requiring  infinite  tact  and 
discretion. 

Andre  nodded  his  appreciation.  "Well,  Cap- 
tain Black,"  he  said,  "in  the  circumstances,  I  will 
charter  your  schooner  for  a  voyage;  from  the 
mouth  of  this  little  river  to  Sydney." 

"Might  be  done,  if  the  terms " 

"The  terms  are  fixed,"  Andre  rapped  out, 
with  a  sudden  change  of  tone  which  had  visible 
effect  on  the  man  in  the  boat.  "The  document 
which  you  have  probably  left  on  board  the  schooner 


20       The  Coming  of  Captain  Black 

mentions  the  sum  of  five  hundred  pounds,  in 
English  money. " 

"You  know  a  deuce  of  a  lot!"  said  the  other, 
slowly,  after  a  pause,  during  which  he  seemed 
to  be  searching  for  an  appropriate  reply,  and,  fail- 
ing, had  to  fall  back  on  deliberate  rudeness. 

"I  know  everything,"  retorted  Andre  coolly. 

"Not  quite," — provokingly, —  "not  quite." 

" SacrSI"  burst  out  Jean,  unable  to  restrain  his 
impatience  any  longer.  "What's  the  use  of  all 
this  jaw  ?  Here !  you !  fat  hog !  Back  your  beastly 
boat  in  at  once!  We're  coming  on  board. "  And 
as  he  spoke  he  made  a  dash  for  the  gig.  The 
Kanakas  grinned,  and  gave  a  couple  of  smart 
strokes  with  the  oars.  Captain  Black  snatched 
up  the  rifle,  a  Winchester  repeater. 

" Now  then,  Ugly, "  he  sneered,  "just  stop  where 
you  are !  You  look  as  if  a  meal  would  do  you  good ; 
and,  by  Botany  Bay,  you're  on  the  road  to  getting 
a  full  breakfast  of  lead,  you  skinny  little  son  of  a — 
monkey!" 

Jean  took  scant  notice  of  the  threat,  and  waded 
on  after  the  boat,  mouthing  curses.  Black  raised 
the  rifle  slowly  to  his  shoulder. 

"Jean!"  Andre  called  out. 

Jean  came  to  a  sudden  halt,  swung  round,  and 
waded  sulkily  ashore  again. 


The  Coming  of  Captain  Black       21 

"That's  the  talk, "  remarked  Captain  Black 
approvingly,  lowering  the  rifle.  "Ever  been  to 
sea,  mister?"  he  inquired  of  Andre  for  no  apparent 
reason. 

"No,"  shortly. 

Captain  Black  asked  the  question  with  a  motive. 
If  Andre  knew  something  of  navigation,  Black 
might  be  deemed  superfluous — that  was  all.  It 
was  quite  evident  that  he  disregarded  the  others ; 
they  were  of  no  account. 

"No?  Well,  it's  a  pity,  for  you've  the  gift.  I 
b'lieve  I'd  a*  had  to  plug  him,  if  you  hadn't 
spoken.  It  all  comes  of  trying  to  run  with  a 
head  wind,"  Captain  Black  went  on;  "and  that, 
as  any  seaman  knows,  is  damn  nonsense.  Now, 
let's  get  things  square-o,  Liverpool  fashion, 
meanin',  of  course,  nice  and  shipshape.  First 
item.  I've  a  bill  of  lading  for  one;  the  charter- 
party  you  know  such  a  bible  about  calls  him 
—  "he  paused  slightly.  "Now! — you,  that's  so 
clever?" 

"My  name  is  John  Andrews,"  replied  Andre. 

"Ay.  That'll  do.  Come  aboard,  Mister  John 
Andrews. " 

"All  or  none,"  returned  Andre. 

The  big  man  shook  his  head.  "My  name's 
Black — not  Green,"  he  said.     "I  thought  I  told 


22       The  Coming  of  Captain  Black 

you  that  from  the  first — to  save  any  misunder- 
standings." 

"All  or  none/'  repeated  Andre  firmly. 

"'Tain't  in  the  charter-party,' '  objected  the 
other  doggedly. 

"All  or  none" — again. 

"Been  teachin'  a  parrot,  haven't  you?"  sneered 
the  captain ;  but  as  his  effort  at  sarcasm  produced 
no  effect,  he  began  to  bluster.  "I've  come  to  this 
dog-hole  of  a  place  to  pick  up  a  passenger,  one  John 
Andrews.  That's  my  job — what  I'm  paid  for — and 
what  I'm  goin'  to  do.  I've  no  call  to  fill  my 
schooner  with  a  lot  of  beach-combers  as  thinks 
a  sea  voyage  'ud  improve  their  complexions.  I 
ain't  paid  to  do  that;  I  say,  I  ain't  paid.  And  I 
reckon  the  best  thing  I  can  do  is  to  go  back  the  way 
I  come — while  I've  got  a  sound  throat  on  me — 
how'll  that  signify,  Mister  Andrews?" 

"Not  that,"  retorted  Andre,  with  a  snap  of  his 
finger  and  thumb.  "As  for  being  paid,  do  not  for- 
get, Captain  Black — or  White — the  document, 
the  charter-party — you  are  pleased  to  call  it, 
though  you  are  wrong — lacks  a  signature — my 
own — without  which  your  five  hundred  sovereigns 
is — pouf! — a  castle  in  Spain." 

"Castle  in  flaming  hell!"  returned  the  big  man. 
"Are  you  coming  aboard,  John  Andrews?" 


The  Coming  of  Captain  Black       23 

"Not  alone." 

"Then  stop  there,  and  rot, "  rapped  out  Captain 
Black,  and,  turning  away,  he  seated  himself 
heavily  on  the  stern  thwart.  As  he  did  so,  the 
face  of  the  Kanaka  nearest  him  lit  up  with  sudden 
interest. 

"Capena,"  the  man  croaked,  pointing,  "mana 
come  'longa  shore." 

Captain  Black  slewed  round,  and  sprang  to  his 
feet  again. 

Streaming  round  the  point  at  the  mouth  of  the 
little  river,  he  perceived  a  band  of  savages  leaping 
from  boulder  to  boulder  of  the  rocks,  which  were 
once  more  left  bare  by  the  falling  tide. 

As  they  made  a  dash  for  the  boat,  Andre  caught 
his  companions  by  the  arms,  holding  them  back 
by  main  force. 

"John  Andrews!"  bellowed  Captain  Black. 
"Come  on ! "  He  stormed  at  the  Kanakas  to  back 
the  gig  inshore. 

"All  or  none,"  shouted  Andr6. 

"The  bluff's  off!"  roared  the  captain,  flinging 
his  arms  about  wildly.  All  chance  of  earning  his 
five  hundred  pounds  seemed  to  be  vanishing. 

Andre  laughed,  and,  letting  go  his  grip  of  his 
comrades'  arms,  joined  in  their  wild  rush  towards 
the  boat. 


24       The  Coming  of  Captain  Black 

"Double-bank  the  oars,  blast  ye!"  thundered 
Captain  Black,  as  Kit  and  Jean  tumbled  in  over 
the  gunwale.  "Pull,  ye  naked  devils!  Pull  like 
— blazes!"  Then  he  snatched  up  the  rifle  and 
began  methodically  to  "brown"  the  oncoming 
savages.  It  was  very  evident  that  "trouble ' '  and 
Captain  Black  were  no  strangers.  It  was  only  the 
prospect  of  pecuniary  loss  that  caused  him  excite- 
ment. 

As  Andre  clambered  aboard,  the  gig  was  already 
on  the  move.  A  shower  of  spears  hurtled  round 
the  little  craft.  With  a  groan  the  Kanaka  on 
Kit's  thwart  bent  double  over  the  loom  of  his 
oar,  a  spearpoint  protruding  between  his  shoulder- 
blades. 

One  oar  thus  encumbered  and  useless,  the 
gig  pivoted  round,  broadside  on,  and  priceless 
moments  were  wasted  before  Kit  could  thrust  the 
wounded  man  clear  and  let  him  drop  on  the  grat- 
ings at  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  Again  and  again 
the  rifle  cracked,  and  between  each  shot  Captain 
Black  bellowed  red-hot  oaths  at  the  lubberliness  of 
his  crew. 

Not  a  few  of  the  savages  fell  on  the  sand  or  in 
the  shallows,  and  of  the  survivors,  all  except  their 
leader  and  one  other,  beat  a  disorderly  retreat, 
uttering  frightful  yells. 


The  Coming  of  Captain  Black       25 

Frenzied  with  rage  because  his  quarry  was 
finally  escaping  him,  and  relying,  no  doubt,  on  the 
immunity  from  harm  afforded  him  by  the  skulls  of 
former  vanquished  enemies  now  dangling  at  his 
priestly  girdle,  the  leader,  who  was  the  "wizard" 
of  the  night  before,  pressed  onwards,  calling 
out  loud  encouragements  to  his  one  faithful 
follower. 

Black  fired;  but  still  the  wizard  seemed  un- 
harmed, and  darting  in  under  the  point  of  the 
rifle,  he  clutched  at  the  gunwale;  then  he  fell 
backwards,  his  own  skull  smashed  in  by  the  de- 
scending rifle-butt.  The  other  savage,  making  for 
the  bows  and  finding  himself  viciously  attacked 
with  a  boathook  by  the  remaining  Kanaka,  made 
a  snatch  at  the  weapon  and  jerked  his  assailant 
overboard,  dashing  out  his  brains  with  a  club 
as  he  pitched  forward. 

The  victory  was  short-lived,  for  Black  leant 
over  the  side,  and  thrusting  out  the  rifle  with  one 
hand,  jammed  the  muzzle  against  the  cannibal's 
breast  and  shot  him  dead. 

The  gig  straightened  and  drew  out  from  the 
shore;  Captain  Black  dropped  the  rifle  and  grasped 
the  tiller. 

"By  Barking  Creek!"  he  panted,  scowling 
at  Kit  and  Jean.     ' '  What  a  gory  mess !     But  these 


26       The  Coming  of  Captain  Black 

two  block  ornaments  '11  have  to  work  their  passage, 
Mister  Andrews,  or  I'll  be  sugared." 

"They  will  do  so,"  Andre  replied  curtly.  He 
had  turned  his  back  resolutely  on  the  island. 

The  tide  was  at  half  ebb,  and  the  gig  made  fair 
progress.  Young  as  the  day  was,  the  sky  was 
brazen;  every  cloud  had  wilted  away,  dissipated 
by  a  merciless  sun.  The  wind  was  up  and  down, 
a  very  Paddy's  hurricane. 

Already  the  far-stretching  coast  of  the  receding 
island  quivered  as  in  a  mirage,  the  peak  of  distant 
Mount  Kopeto  seeming  to  hover,  unstable,  fan- 
tastic, over  the  skyline  of  the  cliffs,  writhing  snake- 
like in  the  heat.  Distorted  sun-globes,  acutely 
painful  to  the  eye,  flashed  and  twisted  in  the  wake 
astern,  and  at  every  stroke  of  the  oars  the  clamour 
of  the  reef  grew  louder,  bringing  with  it  a  sense 
of  almost  physical  discomfort.  In  the  little  boat 
no  word  was  spoken. 

Captain  Black  gave  his  whole  attention  to  the 
tiller,  ever  and  anon  turning  his  head  to  pick  up 
his  bearings  for  the  reef  passage.  No  guiding  sight 
of  the  schooner's  tapering  masts  could  be  gained 
through  the  hazy  spray-film  over  the  coral  barrier. 

Kit  and  Jean  bent  to  the  oars  with  dogged 
perseverance;  their  minds  overflowed  with  exul- 
tation.    Every  stroke  they  took  thrust  the  burden 


The  Coming  of  Captain  Black       27 

of  years  of  exile  and  forced  labour  on  the  hated 
island  further  into  the  past,  every  stroke  carried 
them  nearer  to  that  last  ring-fence  of  coral,  to  the 
vessel  that  was  waiting  beyond — to  freedom! 
The  very  thought  lent  superhuman  energy  to  their 
straining  muscles,  and  caused  the  twain  to  forget 
utterly  their  hunger  and  the  smart  of  their  blister- 
ing skins. 

As  for  their  leader,  in  silent  assumption  of  a 
privilege  beyond  dispute,  he  remained  an  idle 
passenger ;  for  the  present  his  brain  was  at  a  stand- 
still, finding  rest  and  solace  in  the  wonders  offered 
to  his  gaze  through  the  pellucid  waters. 

Waving  fronds,  pencillings  of  greenery,  the 
whole  sea-floor  one  vast  flower-bed  of  coral,  at  once 
the  playground  and  the  hiding-place  of  a  myriad 
rainbow-hued  fish — his  keen  eyes  noted  all  this 
with  an  artistic  relish.  The  doors  of  the  past,  the 
past  dragged  out  on  the  receding  island,  were  closed 
for  ever.  For  the  future,  Andre  had  long  matured 
his  plans. 

At  last  the  gig  drew  near  to  the  reef;  a  slanting 
break  showed  in  the  interminable  line  of  surging 
waters.  Caught  by  the  ebb  of  the  tide,  the  gig 
skimmed  through  a  glass-smooth  channel  veined 
like  marble.  For  a  brief  second  the  bottom  flew  up 
to  meet  them,  to  thrust  them  back;  then,  foiled,  it 


28       The  Coming  of  Captain  Black 

sank  again.  On  either  side  seethed  caldrons  of 
boiling,  hissing  white  foam ;  a  quick  lift  of  the  boat, 
a  smother  of  spray,  tingling  and  blinding — and  the 
thunder  of  the  reef  was  behind  them.  They  were 
through,  riding  with  careless  rein  on  the  bare- 
backed chargers  from  Mother  Ocean's  stables. 

"There!"  Captain  Black  jerked  out,  pointing 
ahead. 

Kit  and  Jean  ceased  pulling,  and  stared  eagerly 
seawards.  Half  a  mile  away,  a  schooner,  her  sails 
lowered,  but  loose  and  ready  for  hoisting,  strained 
at  her  cable  as  though  she  were  a  creature  alive 
and  filled  with  a  wild  impatience  to  be  gone. 

Captain  Black  mopped  vigorously  at  his  fore- 
head, and,  half  turning  round,  shook  his  fist  in 
mock  anger  at  the  reef.  "There's  only  two  men 
in  this  world  knows  how  to  take  that  passage, 
Mister  Andrews,"  he  said,  "and  I  learnt  how,  this 
morning  for  the  first  time,  from  Uncle  Joe. " 

His  gaze  fell  inquiringly  on  the  huddled  form  of 
the  Kanaka  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

"Stiff  as  a  faggot,"  said  Kit,  callously;  the  first 
words  he  had  spoken  since  recovering  from  the 
effect  of  Andre's  blow. 

"Then  there's  only  me  left,"  the  captain  went 
on.  He  stooped  and  made  a  quick  examination 
of  the  prostrate  Kanaka.     "Don't  carry  a  saw- 


The  Coming  of  Captain  Black       29 

bones,"  he  growled.  "Anyway,  it  don't  signify, 
far  as  Uncle  Joe's  consarned."  Then,  lifting  the 
body,  he  levered  it  over  the  gunwale  with  the 
spear-shaft.  The  corpse  sank  slowly,  face  upper- 
most. To  Andre,  leaning  over  and  watching  with 
careless  interest,  the  brown  face  seemed  to  leer  up 
at  him  malignantly,  and  the  outstretched,  swaying 
arms  seemed  to  wave  him  a  mocking  farewell,  until, 
caught  by  an  undercurrent,  the  dead  man  rolled 
over  and  faded  into  the  blue  of  the  submarine. 

"Lost  two,  got  two,"  Captain  Black  observed 
with  clumsy  facetiousness.  "Jack's  down,  Jim's 
up,  as  the  saying  is."  Then,  after  a  pause,  he 
broke  out,  "But  you'll  darned  well  have  to  work 
your  passage,  blast  ye!  Give  way,  or  as  sure  as 
I'm  a  Kalathumpian  I'll  send  some  of  you  to  join 
Uncle  Joe,  and  maybe  he'll  learn  you  how  to 
handle  an  oar." 

Jean  leaned  over  the  loom  of  his  oar  and  returned 
the  big  man's  scowl  with  interest.  "Now,  drop 
it — d'you  hear? — drop  it,"  he  began. 

"Pull,  you  fool!"  growled  Kit,  turning  savagely 
round  on  his  thwart. 

"Silence!"  ejaculated  Andre. 

"Oh,  all  right,  guv'nor!"  Jean  muttered  sulkily. 
"  But  I  look  to  take  my  orders  from  you — and  you 
leave  me  alone!"  he  added  viciously  to  Kit. 


30       The  Coming  of  Captain  Black 

"Pull!"  said  Andre,  in  a  voice  like  a  curate's. 
"Let  us  get  on  board  the  schooner.  And  re- 
member, Captain  Black  is  in  command.  None  of 
us  will  forget  that." 

For  a  moment  Jean  stared  curiously  at  Andre 
with  narrowed  eyes.  "Forget  that,  guv'nor?" 
he  said  at  last  with  feigned  humility.  "Oh,  trust 
me!     I  won't  forget  nothing." 

"Ay,  that's  the  talk,"  put  in  the  Captain  with 
a  jeering  laugh.  "Don't  you  forget!  And  I'll 
remind  ye,  so  as  ye  won't.  Won't  we  be  a  happy 
family!"  As  the  men  resumed  their  labours  he 
burst  forth  into  a  ribald  song,  beginning: — 

"Mother,  come  and  tuck  me  up 
In  my  beautiful,  little  white  cot," 

breaking  off  as  they  approached  the  schooner  to 
hail  two  Kanakas  who  were  standing  on  her  fore- 
deck  jabbering  together  excitedly. 

"Hoy,  on  deck,  there!  Not  so  much  jawberee! 
Lay  aft,  ye  dirty  scuts,  and  pass  that  blanked 
ladder  overside!  And  stand  by  with  a  line,  blast 
ye!  No,  it's  no  use  you  lookin'  for  Uncle  Joe, 
or  Red  Pepper  neither.     They're  gone  aloft,  my 

sons,  where  you'll  join  'em,  if  you  don't  get  a 

move  on  you!  And  I've  brought  ye  a  man  and  a 
quarter  of  a  man  for  shipmates  in  place  of  'em; 


The  Coming  of  Captain  Black       31 

and  the  one's  dumb  as  a  harness-cask,  and  t'other's 
no  more'n  a  son  of  a —  Look  out,  there,  you  in 
the  bows!" 

As  he  shouted  the  warning  a  coil  of  rope  whirled 
through  the  air  and  fell  with  a  thwack  across  the 
bows  of  the  boat.  Jean  made  a  snatch  at  the  rope, 
and  secured  the  end  round  his  thwart.  It  was 
smartly  done. 

"There's  one  of  you's  been  to  sea  before," 
growled  Captain  Black,  in  grudging  approval. 
"Leastways,  if  he  didn't  learn  the  trick  in  a  flat- 
bottomed,  full-bellied  canal  barge." 

Lazily  the  little  gig  edged  in,  slid  down  the 
smooth  back  of  a  swell,  then  nestled  affectionately 
against  her  parent's  black-painted  side.  Her 
captain  gave  the  schooner's  planks  a  resounding 
slap  with  an  open  palm. 

"No  place  like  home,"  he  cried;  "and  what's 
home  without  a  mother?  Now,  Mister  Andrews! 
you  first ;  don't  forget  to  take  your  hat  off  and  wipe 
your  shoes  on  the  mat." 

An  hour  later,  light  flaws  from  the  south-east 
filled  the  schooner's  sails  and  urged  her  gently 
towards  the  west.  For  long,  Andre,  attired  in  a 
loosely  fitting  suit  of  white  drills,  leaned  over  the 
stern    rail.     Motionless,    he   watched   the   hated 


32       The  Coming  of  Captain  Black 

island  of  New  Caledonia  slowly  fade,  until  only 
Kopeto's  dark  cone  remained  visible,  phcenix-like, 
hovering  in  the  sky  over  a  golden  haze.  Then  it, 
too,  melted  into  nothingness  and  was  gone. 

' '  Twenty  years ! ' '  he  muttered .  ' '  Twenty  years 
of  torturing  hell.  .  .  .  Yet  what  beauty  it  has 
bequeathed  to  this  blessed  hour!" 

Andre  leaned  farther  over  the  rail  and  stared 
at  the  name  painted  in  crude  large  white  letters 
across  the  schooners  counter — ninette — sur- 
rounded by  a  flamboyant  scroll-work  in  vivid 
yellow,  the  work  of  a  generous  and  painstaking 
artist,  probably  Black  himself. 

"Painted  tempor'y,  and  special,  by  request, 
Mister.  Easy  to  paint  as  drinkin,  rum ;  all  straight 
lines." 

Andre  wheeled  round,  and  discovered  Black 
standing  behind  him  in  evident  amusement. 

"Look  again  to-morrow — or  next  day  or  so, 
p'raps,  and  you  won't  see  that  name  across  her 
rump,  Mister.  But  I'll  grant  it's  not  a  bad  name 
for  the  old  lady,"  admitted  the  big  seaman  with 
condescension,  screwing  up  his  eyes  as  though  the 
sun  were  too  strong  for  them. 

"You  refer  to  the  schooner?"  said  Andr6  with 
vague  disinterest. 

"Who   else,    Mister — Andrews?"   retorted   the 


The  Coming  of  Captain  Black       33 

other,  grinning.  But  suddenly,  failing  to  brave 
Andre's  direct  and  steely  stare,  he  became  serious, 
and  began  studying  the  sails,  as  if  the  problem  of 
their  trim  taxed  to  the  utmost  even  his  vast  experi- 
ence of  seamanship. 

"Who,  indeed!"  echoed  Andre  quietly. 

Captain  Black  grunted.  "There's  some  tucker, 
coffee,  and  what-not  on  the  cabin  table,"  he  said, 
after  a  pause,  still  studying  the  trim  of  the  sails. 
"I  come  up  to  tell  you.  The  others  'a  got  theirs 
forrard.  And  when  you're  full,  I'll  come  down 
and  find  ye  a  pen  and  a  bottle  of  ink,  and  then 
we'll  be  all  square-o. " 

Andre  turned  away  and  went  below. 

"Ou — ay!"  said  Captain  Black  to  himself. 
"Ou-ay!  Very  high  and  very  mighty,  Mister 
bloomin'  Andrews!  I  come  to  pick  up  one — and 
I  find  three;  and  not  a  rag  between  'em!  Well, 
Mister  High  and  Mighty,  after  what  I  heard  down 
Noumea  way,  I  reckon  I  can  put  a  name  to  you — 
and  it  ain't  Mister  bloomin'  the  Archangel  Gabriel 
neither.  Not  on  my  haffidavy,  it  ain't,"  added  the 
big  seaman.  He  repeated  the  last  six  words 
several  times,  as  if  they  gave  his  tongue  intense 
satisfaction. 


CHAPTER  III 

JEAN  PAYS  OFF  A  SCORE 

CROM  Mueo  Bay,  on  the  west  coast  of  New 
A  Caledonia,  to  Sydney  the  ocean  track  lies  in 
a  straight  line.  As  Captain  Black  remarked, 
"Barrin'  the  Middleton  and  'Liza  Reefs  (and  they 
lay  to  the  south'ard  enough  not  to  make  me  lose 
my  beauty  sleep),  there's  nothin'  in  the  way  for 
the  old  gal — meaning  the  Ninette,  Mister — to  butt 
up  against." 

Roughly,  the  distance  is  a  little  more  than  a 
thousand  miles ;  and,  allowing  for  the  help  that  a 
navigator  might  reasonably  expect  during  the 
latter  part  of  the  voyage  from  the  south-westerly 
current  which  sweeps  in  towards  and  down  the 
coast  of  Australia,  Captain  Black  reckoned  he 
would  drop  anchor  inside  Sydney  Heads  within  a 
fortnight  at  the  most. 

As  the  Ninette  drew  away  from  the  lee  of  the 
island  the  light  flaws  of  wind  from  the  south-east 
veered  more  easterly,  strengthened  in  gentle  puffs, 

34 


Jean  Pays  off  a  Score  35 

then  settled  down  to  a  steady  trade- wind.  Over- 
head the  deep,  gorgeous  blue  of  the  sky  was  dotted 
with  small  dead-white  clouds,  like  balls  of  cotton- 
wool, which,  far  down  all  around  the  complete 
circle  of  the  horizon,  seemed  to  be  pressed  together 
in  one  filmy  mass.  With  her  decks  aslant,  the 
schooner  coquetted  with  the  sun-jewelled  waves, 
while  the  rippling  hollows  that  had  been  shivering 
her  snowy  sails  now  filled  out  into  smooth,  bold, 
graceful  curves. 

Captain  Black  leaned  over  the  taffrail  and  gazed 
at  the  water  kissing  the  schooner's  black  side,  as  if 
loth  to  let  her  go;  he  judged  the  speed  to  be  five 
knots.  To  his  experienced  eye,  everything  pointed 
to  settled  weather  and  a  straightforward  passage. 
The  seaman  was  jubilant. 

To  his  great  relief — for,  in  spite  of  his  bluster, 
Black  had  felt  decidedly  uneasy — "John  An- 
drews" had  put  his  signature  without  demur  to 
the  draft  for  £500  upon  a  New  South  Wales  bank, 
which  now  reposed  securely  somewhere  about  the 
seaman's  bulky  person.  Common-sense,  of  which 
the  captain  considered  he  had  quite  his  fair  share, 
told  him  that,  once  Sydney  was  reached,  his  £500 
would  materialise,  if  only  as  the  price  of  a  silent 
tongue;  and,  having  received  the  reward  for  his 
services,  Black  would  not  be  fool  enough  to  incrimi- 


36  Jean  Pays  off  a  Score 

nate  himself  by  allowing  his  apparently  habitually 
unruly  member  to  wag. 

It  would  not  be  "business " ;  for  the  Captain  was 
well  aware  that,  owing  to  past  (unproved)  traffick- 
ings  of  a  very  doubtful  nature,  he  had  a  certain 
reputation,  and  it  behoved  him  to  be  wary.  But, 
putting  that  on  one  side,  Black  was  honest  enough 
according  to  his  lights.  He  had  every  intention 
of  carrying  out  his  part  of  the  bargain;  and,  it 
may  be  said,  his  honesty  of  intention  was  as 
natural  to  the  man  as  a  product  of  an  ingrained 
seaman's  instinct  which  caused  him  to  regard 
"John  Andrews"  somewhat  in  the  light  of  freight, 
shipped,  and  to  be  delivered. 

The  other  two  scallawags  Black  regarded  merely 
as  poor  substitutes  for  the  two  lost  Kanakas, 
whom  a  grimmer  captain,  one  Davy  Jones,  had 
"signed  on"  upon  the  lid  of  his  capacious  locker 
in  the  ship  of  Death.  Fears  for  his  own  personal 
safety  Black  had  none;  he  had  been  brought  up 
hard,  had  literally  fought  his  way  to  command 
in  his  early  sea  career.  He  possessed  an  abnormal 
self-esteem,  and,  had  confidence  in  himself  been 
lacking,  the  extraordinary  authority  which  "John 
Andrews"  wielded  over  his  two  cut-throat  com- 
panions would  have  reassured  Black. 

Within    an    hour    of    the    embarkation    there 


Jean  Pays  off  a  Score  37 

had  been  trouble  with  the  little  man;  a  knife  had 
been  thrown,  and  even  now  it  remained  quivering 
as  the  vessel  rose  and  fell,  with  its  point  buried  in 
the  woodwork  of  the  wheel-box;  then,  before  Black 
could  lay  hands  on  the  thrower,  "John  Andrews" 
had  sprung  on  deck  from  below,  had  caught  the 
little  man  by  the  throat,  and  beaten  him  into 
insensibility.  Black  admitted  that  even  he  could 
not  have  done  the  job  neater  or  more  thoroughly. 

The  succeeding  days  passed  by  uneventfully 
enough.  The  one  incident  worthy  of  note  was 
that  Black  went  over  the  stern  in  a  bowline  and 
scraped  Ninette  from  the  counter,  and  repainted 
thereon  the  schooner's  legitimate  name,  Coal 
Sack — a  name  derived  from  a  peculiar  dark  blur 
within  the  constellation  of  the  Southern  Cross 
which  is  likened  by  sailors  to  a  sack  of  coals. 

They  were,  indeed,  becoming  "a  happy  family, " 
as  the  captain  had  sarcastically  prophesied.  After 
the  first  inevitable  "flare-up,"  no  matter  what 
wealth  of  provocative  remarks,  gorgeous  in  their 
colour-scheme,  he  might  lavish  on  Kit  and  Jean 
for  mistakes  natural  to  landlubbers,  the  two  new 
members  of  his  crew  returned  not  a  single  "back- 
answer." 

Kit's  face  was  inscrutable;  he  did  his  work  in 
silence.     Jean  laughed,  and  chattered  in  French 


38  Jean  Pays  off  a  Score 

which  Black  did  not  understand  and  would  have 
taken  as  insulting,  but  let  pass,  because  "John 
Andrews"  assured  him  that  what  the  little  man 
said  could  not  possibly  be  stretched  so  as  to  refer 
to  the  Captain  even  by  implication. 

In  their  leisure  time,  Kit  and  Jean  remained  for- 
ward of  the  mainmast;  Black  insisted  upon  this 
rule.  "The  cabin's  for  you  and  me,  Mister,"  he 
had  said  to  "John  Andrews."  And  Andre  had 
agreed  that  it  should  be  so;  and  when  he  wished 
to  hold  consultations  with  his  erstwhile  compan- 
ions— as  he  frequently  did — "John  Andrews" 
went  forward  himself  to  the  bows  of  the  schooner. 

Of  work  there  was  little;  it  might  have  been  a 
yachting  trip.  The  crew  kept  calashee  watches: 
they  were  all  liable  to  be  called  upon  to  work 
when  required. 

"John  Andrews"  relinquished  his  r61e  of  pas- 
senger, and  he  soon  proved  that  he  was  capable 
of  taking  the  place  of  the  mate,  whom  Black  had 
left  behind  "upon  the  beach"  at  Noumea. 

As  for  Captain  Black  himself,  he  was  a  con- 
firmed believer  in  the  conservation  of  energy. 
Across  the  stern  of  the  schooner  he  rigged  up  an 
awning,  just  a  worn-out  jib  stretched  double  from 
the  taffrail  to  the  vangs  on  either  side,  affording 
some  degree  of  relief  in  the  languorous,  tropical 


Jean  Pays  off  a  Score  39 

heat.  Beneath  this  awning  there  was  always  a  deck 
chair,  of  unusual  dimensions  and  sturdiness,  placed 
near  the  wheel  and  a  little  behind  the  helmsman. 

On  relieving  "John  Andrews,"  Captain  Black 
would  take  one  or  two  portentous  turns  along  the 
deck,  gaze  at  the  horizon,  then  at  the  sails;  and, 
eventually,  he  would  lower  himself  into  the  chair, 
"just  for  a  couple  of  minutes."  There  he  would 
recline,  smoking,  and  lazily  watching  the  tiny 
ripples  undulating  from  luff  to  leach  across  the 
snowy  cotton  canvas  as  the  sails  bellied  and  the 
schooner  heeled  over,  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 
pitter-patter  (like  little  scurrying  footsteps)  of  the 
reef  points. 

Every  now  and  again  an  ocean  swell,  out-dis- 
tancing the  still  far-distant,  stronger  breeze  that  set 
it  rolling,  heaved  up  the  stern  of  the  little  vessel, 
and  running  beneath  her  length,  tilted  the  bows, 
jerking  the  spars  against  the  mast  and  creating 
that  all-pervading  chorus  of  noises  inherent  in  a 
sailing  ship  at  sea. 

To  some,  perhaps,  the  insistent  chorus  would 
have  become  maddening  to  the  verge  of  despera- 
tion. To  Captain  Black  it  was  a  chant — Mother 
Ocean's  lullaby — though  one  might  reasonably 
have  boggled  at  the  word  "lullaby"  when  used  in 
connection  with  the  huge  seaman. 


40  Jean  Pays  off  a  Score 

The  "couple  of  minutes"  would  become  ten, 
twenty,  while  his  wide  sun  helmet  tipped  farther 
and  farther  over  his  glistening  mahogany  face ;  the 
cigar  would  droop  between  his  fat  lips,  and  go  out; 
and  presently  heavy,  regular  breathings  would  pro- 
claim to  the  stolid  Kanaka  helmsman  (Kit  and  Jean 
were  never  allowed  to  take  the  wheel)  that  his  cap- 
tain was  keeping  an  untroubled  watch  in  his  usual 
manner.  At  night  it  was  different ;  Captain  Black 
could  not  forget  Jean's  aptitude  for  knife  slinging. 

Navigation,  also,  was  not  one  of  Black's  strong 
points;  as  a  science,  he  professed  to  regard  it  with 
some  scorn.  He  claimed  (erroneously  enough)  to 
belong  to  the  "old  school."  A  "shot"  at  the  sun 
at  noon  to  reckon  his  latitude;  the  log  to  tell  the 
speed  (though  he  preferred  to  judge  it  by  eyesight 
alone);  the  compass  to  mark  the  course;  for  the 
rest,  "rule  of  thumb":  these  constituted  his 
method  of  traversing  the  ocean.  And  a  lifelong 
experience  of  making  port  after  port  with  astonish- 
ing accuracy  did  not  tend  to  make  him  aspire  to 
more  "new-fangled"  ideas. 

"Hull,  Hell,  and  Halifax!"  he  had  remarked 
naively  to  "John  Andrews"  at  the  end  of  a  pre- 
liminary discussion  about  the  voyage.  "  Poke  the 
old  bitch's  nose  straight  and  leave  her  alone,  and 
she'll  smell  her  way  across." 


Jean  Pays  off  a  Score  41 

Or,  as  he  observed  daily  at  noon  when  he  pored 
over  an  ancient  chart  that  cried  out  for  the  cleans- 
ing bread-crumbs:  "There  y'are!" — the  tip  of  a 
stubby  forefinger  covering  many  square  miles  of 
ocean — "there  or  thereabouts,  within  a  mile  or 
two,  one  way  or  t'other.  Leastways,  it's  near 
enough." 

And  by  that  last  phrase  alone,  had  he  been  a 
seafaring  man  with  a  knowledge  of  South  Sea 
skippers,  "John  Andrews"  might  have  known  that 
he  was  in  the  presence  of  the  notorious  "Near- 
enough-Black. " 

The  voyage  took  longer  than  had  been  antici- 
pated. It  was  sunset  on  April  14th  before  the 
schooner  Coal  Sack,  with  but  three  men  visible  on 
deck,  slipped  inside  Sydney  Heads  and  anchored  in 
Watson's  Bay. 

Black  explained  his  short-handedness  by  means 
of  a  faked  log  book,  and  the  plausible  lie  that  two 
members  of  his  crew  had  been  washed  overboard 
during  a  storm.  He  was  congratulated  on  bring- 
ing his  vessel  safely  to  port,  and  informed  that  in 
the  morning  he  was  to  proceed  up  the  harbour  to  a 
berth  at  Miller's  Wharf.  Then  he  was  left  by  the 
authorities  to  a  "well-earned"  rest. 

But  just  before  midnight  a  boat  was  lowered  over 
the  Coal  Sack's  side,  dropping  noiselessly  to  the 


42  Jean  Pays  off  a  Score 

water  from  well-oiled  tackles;  and  an  hour  later 
three  men  stepped  ashore  upon  an  unfrequented 
beach  not  far  from  the  seaside  resort  of  Manly. 
From  the  boat  Captain  Black  watched  them  dis- 
perse in  different  directions;  then  he  pulled  back 
to  the  schooner. 

Captain  Black  bade  the  Kanakas  hoist  in  the 
boat,  while  he  himself  went  down  to  his  cabin, 
where  he  lifted  the  lid  of  a  locker  which  had  not 
been  opened  throughout  the  voyage,  and  took  out 
a  bottle  of  whiskey.  The  night  was  almost  unbear- 
ably close  and  hot;  a  "southerly  buster"  was 
brewing,  and  until  it  came  there  would  be  no  relief. 
Black  perspired  freely.  The  return  journey  from 
the  shore  to  the  schooner,  when  he  had  been  forced 
to  do  the  pulling  himself,  had  taxed  his  energy  to 
its  limit. 

Having  found  a  dirty  pannikin,  and  wiped  it 
clean  with  his  red  bandanna,  he  sat  down  on  a 
settee  and  partook  of  a  refresher;  but,  finding 
the  cabin  stifling,  he  clutched  his  bottle  and  panni- 
kin and  went  on  deck,  where  he  subsided  into  his 
favourite  chair  near  the  taffrail.  Then  he  pro- 
ceeded to  drink,  methodically  making  up  for 
arrears. 

He  quickly  got  through  the  quarrelsome  stage, 
because  there  was  no  one  to  fight  with;  Kanakas 


Jean  Pays  off  a  Score  43 

"did  not  count,"  even  when  he  was  in  liquor. 
The  maudlin  state  was  not  part  of  his  repertoire, 
so  he  passed  on  to  the  humorous  stage,  which,  with 
Black,  was  the  perihelion  of  intoxication. 

He  sang  songs  which  are  unprintable;  his 
" patter"  was  worse;  and,  finally,  he  imagined 
himself  standing  again  in  the  little  boat,  rocking  to 
and  fro  just  beyond  the  breakers,  while  he  shouted 
with  laughter  at  the  sight  of  three  naked  scare- 
crows with  funny-looking  straw  hats  on  their 
heads,  who  stared  at  him  from  a  strip  of  bright 
yellow  sand — the  dark  cliffs  behind  them — • 
a  band  of  brown  savages  brandishing  spears 
and  clubs,  and  racing  over  the  rocks  at  the 
point. 

Again  and  again  the  drunken  man  reconstructed 
the  scene,  and  each  time  more  confusedly,  until  it 
all  became  an  inextricable,  jumbled  nightmare, 
with  but  one  thing  standing  out  clear  and  insistent 
— the  ratlike  face  of  a  little  man  leaning  over  the 
loom  of  his  idle  oar  and  "daring"  him  with 
unwinking,  cruel  eyes. 

Presently  Captain  Black  began  to  wag  his  head 
uneasily,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  dispel  the  vision 
from  his  drink-sodden  brain.  Then,  suddenly, 
his  eyes  opened  wide  and  fixed  themselves  with 
stupid  intensity  upon  Jean,  in  the  flesh,  crouching 


44  Jean  Pays  off  a  Score 

before  him  with  an  arm  bent  back  in  the  attitude  of 
throwing. 

Black  made  a  supreme  effort  to  jerk  himself 
upright,  but  the  heavy  head  lagged,  the  chin  tilted 
upwards;  and,  in  that  instant,  something,  white- 
hot,  seemed  to  leap  out  of  the  darkness  and  burn 
its  way  deep  into  his  throat. 

The  chair  swayed,  creaked  loudly,  then  col- 
lapsed sideways,  spilling  its  huge  burden  upon  the 
deck. 

With  incredible  savagery,  Jean  kicked  the 
twitching  mass  into  absolute  stillness;  then  he 
clambered  swiftly  over  the  stern  rail,  dropped  into 
a  boat,  and  disappeared  whence  he  had  come. 

A  little  later  the  Kanaka,  who  had  been  drowsily 
keeping  anchor- watch  forward,  came  aft  to  look 
at  the  clock  at  the  top  of  the  companion  stairs. 
He  wanted  to  find  out  how  much  longer  he  must 
keep  awake  before  arousing  his  sleeping  companion 
to  relieve  him. 

The  Kanaka  caught  sight  of  Black's  huddled 
form,  grunted,  and  stooped  carelessly  to  loosen 
the  clothing  at  the  neck.  He  had  been  taught 
to  do  so,  and  he  was  fond  of  his  Captain  in  a 
fatalistic  sort  of  way.  His  fingers  encountered 
the  knife;  he  drew  them  away — wet.  Then  he 
sped  forward. 


Jean  Pays  off  a  Score  45 

Shortly  two  dark  forms  crept  aft.  A  hurried 
consultation  over  the  body — and  a  few  moments 
later  the  mainsail  began  to  creep  slowly  up  the 
mast.  A  jib  was  cast  loose  and  hoisted;  then  the 
anchor  light  went  out,  and  the  end  of  a  cable  rasped 
through  the  hawse-pipe  and  sank  with  a  splash 
beneath  the  water. 

Silently,  like  a  grey  ghost,  the  Coal  Sack  glided 
out  beyond  the  Heads.  In  the  south,  where  sea 
and  sky  merged  in  one  ink-black  curtain,  there  was 
a  vivid  flash  of  lightning,  followed  by  a  sudden  cold 
gust  of  wind,  which  died  away  as  suddenly  in 
heavy  rain,  leaving  the  schooner  rolling  to  the 
swell,  her  sails  flapping  like  helpless  wings,  and 
threatening  to  jerk  the  masts  overboard.  In 
stolid  silence  the  Kanakas  awaited  the  furious 
squall  which  they  knew  lurked  behind  the  pall  of 
rain.  One  grasped  the  spokes  of  the  kicking  wheel, 
the  other  stood  by  the  main-sheet. 

For  the  coming  storm  they  had  nothing  but  wel- 
come, certainly  no  fear.  But,  strangely  enough, 
though  they  had  no  conception  of  the  meaning  of 
"circumstantial  evidence,"  their  fear  of  the  justice 
of  the  white  man  was  immeasurable. 


BOOK  II 
CHAPTER  I 

THE  PINK  SUNBONNET 

/^NCE  more  the  smooth  glide  above  the  gravel 
^^  ripple  became  wrinkled  by  the  rise  of  a  big 
trout.  For  the  last  half -hour  the  same  coveted 
fish  had  been  feeding  with  annoying  regularity; 
annoying,  because  the  angler,  peering  up-stream 
from  behind  a  stunted  willow  bush,  had  so  far  failed 
to  discover  what  tiny  insect  it  was  that  Master 
Trout  found  so  tempting  to  his  fastidious  palate. 

Flies  there  were  in  myriads,  whirling  in  clusters 
above  the  water,  or  sailing  jauntily  down-stream, 
with  their  dainty,  transparent  wings  a-cock;  but 
the  "imitation,"  however  carefully  offered,  only 
had  the  effect  of  putting  the  shy  fish  "down"; 
though  presently,  on  being  given  a  few  minutes' 
rest  to  recover  confidence,  he  would  resume  his 
interrupted  meal.  But  at  last  persistent  watch- 
fulness brought  its"  reward. 

46 


The  Pink  Sunbonnet  47 

The  Honourable  Trevor  Wyer  tied  on  his  cast 
the  most  diminutive  imitation  of  a  pale  watery  dun 
he  could  find  in  his  ragged  old  fly -book,  and  waded 
cautiously  into  the  river.  Two  or  three  overhead 
twirls  of  the  line  to  get  the  proper  length  for  the 
throw,  and  then 

"Damn!"  ejaculated  the  Hon.  Trevor,  with 
great  fervour,  and  let  the  current  trail  his  line. 

The  fish  had  been  "put  down"  with  a  venge- 
ance !     Probably  for  hours  to  come. 

Wyer  stooped  and  made  a  vicious  grab  at 
a  boat's  scull  which  came  bobbing  down  the  gravel 
ripple  and  threatened  to  knock  against  his  knees; 
then  he  waded  to  the  bank  again,  flung  the  cause 
of  offence  upon  the  grass,  and  reeled  in  his  line. 

"You  blessed  tea-spoon ! "  he  soliloquised,  eyeing 
the  small,  brightly  varnished  scull  with  disfavour. 
"You're  enough  to  scare  an  old  dog-pike,  let  alone 
a  critical  gentleman  like  my  trout.  Monogram, 
too — *G' — in  old  gold ;  it  ought  to  be  new.  I  fancy 
I  can  put  a  name  to  your  owner.  H'm!  a  fair 
damsel  in  distress,  for  a  fiver. " 

He  looked  up-stream,  half  expecting  to  catch 
sight  of  a  boat  more  or  less  helplessly  drifting  down 
the  reach  after  the  missing  scull.  Seeing  nothing, 
he  lighted  a  pipe,  and,  shouldering  the  scull  and 
his  rod,  set  out  along  the  river  bank  in  search. 


48  The  Pink  Sunbonnet 

A  trudge  of  nearly  a  mile  brought  Wyer  to  a 
sharp  bend  of  the  river.  Here  the  current  became 
swift,  brawling  noisily  down  a  long  ford,  at  the  top 
of  which,  broadside,  on  a  submerged  ledge  of  rock 
a  few  yards  from  the  bank,  was  a  small  ou trigged 
pleasure  boat  jammed  hard  and  fast. 

A  girl  dressed  in  serviceable  brown  holland  and  a 
pink  haymaker's  sunbonnet  sat  calmly  in  the 
middle  of  the  boat,  watching  Wyer's  approach. 

Arriving  opposite  the  boat,  Wyer  thrust  the 
spear  of  his  rod  into  the  ground,  and  raised  his 
cap.  He  now  felt  more  tolerant  of  the  interruption 
of  his  sport.  The  girl  in  the  boat  was  decidedly 
attractive. 

In  a  masculine  way,  he  approved  of  her  dress, 
especially  the  old-fashioned  sunbonnet ;  and  he  was 
vastly  relieved  that  though  his  prognostication 
about  the  owner  of  the  drifting  scull  being  a  damsel 
had  proved  correct,  the  damsel  herself  at  any  rate 
did  not  exhibit  any  signs  of  distress.  The  girl, 
however,  was  in  a  very  awkward,  not  to  say 
dangerous,  predicament. 

"Hit  me  on  the  legs,"  Wyer  called  out  cheer- 
fully, holding  up  the  scull. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  the  girl  replied. 

"You  ought  to  be  glad,"  retorted  Wyer,  coming 
down  the  bank  to  the  water's  edge. 


The  Pink  Sunbonnet  49 

"I  am,"  she  said,  and  laughed.  "I  began  to 
think  I  was  to  stay  here  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 
I  can't  swim,  and  the  current  is  too  strong  for  me 
to  wade  ashore." 

"Jolly  good  thing  you  didn't  try,"  observed 
Wyer.  "It's  a  nasty  place;  close  on  three  feet 
deep,  too.  Let's  see."  He  prodded  the  channel 
between  them  several  times  with  the  butt  of  the 
scull. 

"The  bottom  is  smooth  rock,  and  very  slippery. 
I  tried  it  myself  with  the  boat-hook.  Shall  I 
throw  it  to  you?"  she  asked,  reaching  for  the  pole. 
Wyer  noticed  that  her  left  hand  was  bandaged  with 
a  handkerchief. 

"Sit  still,"  he  said  sharply.  He  stepped 
gingerly  into  the  water,  and  using  the  scull  as  a 
support,  waded  slowly  across  to  the  boat  without 
mishap.  Planting  his  feet  firmly  on  the  sub- 
merged rock,  he  stooped  and  placed  the  scull 
ready  for  use  alongside  its  fellow. 

"Now!"  he  said  curtly.  "Go  and  sit  in  the 
stern."  The  girl  gave  him  a  quick  look,  half 
resenting  the  peremptoriness  of  his  tone;  but  she 
obeyed  him. 

"We  shall  have  to  go  down,  whether  we  like  it  or 
not,"  he  remarked,  levering  the  boat  off  the  rock. 
"Look  out!  She's  off!"  Then,  as  the  strong 
4 


50  The  Pink  Sunbonnet 

current  caught  the  stern,  he  stepped  nimbly  into 
the  bows  and  crouched,  balancing  himself,  while 
they  were  swept  rapidly  to  the  tail  of  the 
ford. 

They  did  not  speak  during  the  struggle  to  the 
top  again.  On  his  part,  Wyer  appreciated  her 
regard  for  his  breath,  for  the  ford  had  the  deserved 
reputation  of  being  one  of  the  longest  and  most 
difficult  on  the  river. 

"Thank  you/'  the  girl  said  simply,  when  quiet 
water  was  gained.  "I  can  manage  now.  I  hope 
you  are  not  very  wet. " 

"Dry  as  a  bone,"  returned  Wyer,  lying  man- 
fully, for  the  water  had  surged  over  the  top  of  his 
waders,  and  his  legs  were  soaked.  "What's  the 
matter  with  your  hand?" 

"I  pinched  it  against  the  rowlock  when  I  lost 
the  scull,"  she  replied,  guiltily.  "I  was  bringing 
the  boat  round  the  lower  end  of  the  island  there, 
and  the  current  caught  me  unawares;  and  in  the 
excitement  of  the  moment  I'm  afraid  I  caught  a 
crab!  But  don't  let  me  keep  you  from  your 
fishing  any  longer.  I  am  sorry  to  have  been  such 
a  nuisance.  Really,  I  can  manage  quite  well 
now;  it  is  all  easy  water  up  above. " 

"Let  me  see  your  hand,"  demanded  Wyer. 

"It  is  nothing — really." 


The  Pink  Sunbonnet  51 

Wyer  pulled  in  to  the  bank,  and  made  the  boat 
fast  to  a  willow  branch. 

"Let  me  see  your  hand,"  he  repeated.  Then, 
as  she  looked  rebellious,  he  leaned  forward,  took 
hold  of  her  wrist,  and  unwound  the  bandage. 
There  was  a  blood-blister  the  size  of  a  sixpence 
on  the  inside  of  her  thumb,  just  where  it  would 
chafe  in  gripping  a  scull. 

"H'm,"  he  observed,  "you  can't  possibly  pull 
with  a  thumb  like  that.     And  it  has  burst. " 

"That  was  very  rude  of  you,"  the  girl  said 
indignantly,  as  he  released  her  hand. 

Wyer  made  no  reply;  but,  getting  out  of  the 
boat,  he  went  to  fetch  his  rod.  He  took  one  of 
the  sculls  with  him. 

"You  are  taking  my  scull,"  she  remarked 
rather  frigidly. 

"Merely  as  a  precaution,"  Wyer  called  out 
over  his  shoulder. 

"Oh,  you  are  horrid!" 

Presently  he  returned  with  his  rod,  and,  untying 
the  boat,  got  in  and  began  pulling  steadily  up- 
stream. For  a  while  neither  of  them  spoke; 
apparently  the  girl  found  much  to  interest  her  on 
the  banks. 

"Don't  you  think  I  had  better  get  out  and 
walk?"  she  inquired  suddenly. 


52  The  Pink  Sunbonnet 

"Why?" 

"We  seem  to  have  been  opposite  that  tree  for  a 
long  time" — pointedly. 

"That's  not  quite  true.  And  isn't  it  a  bit 
ungrateful?" 

"No,"  the  girl  replied  innocently.  "I  meant 
it  must  be  very  hard  work  for  you." 

"I  like  it,"  Wyer  retorted.  "We  shall  get 
along  better  presently." 

"There  is  nearly  a  mile  to  go  yet — and  there 
are  several  fords,"  she  added  a  little  maliciously, 
after  a  pause. 

Wyer  grinned.  "  Oh ! "  he  remarked  carelessly, "  I 
thought  just  now  you  said  it  was  all  easy  water. " 

"It  is  for  me,"  the  girl  replied  stiffly.  "I  am 
used  to  it." 

"So  am  I,"  returned  Wyer. 

"Indeed!" 

"Yes,  I  was  brought  up  on  this  part  of  the 
river." 

"Oh!" 

"I  say!"  ejaculated  Wyer,  after  a  long  silence. 
"Don't  let  us  quarrel."  The  girl  raised  her  eye- 
brows in  polite  surprise  and  looked  him  straight  in 
the  face.  She  had  eyes  of  so  delightful  a  shade 
of  brown  that  Wyer  felt  unrepentant  of  his  last 
remark. 


The  Pink  Sunbonnet  53 

"Quarrel!"  she  said.  "I  do  not  quarrel  with 
people  I  do  not  know." 

"That  is  easily  remedied,"  Wyer  answered 
pleasantly.     "  My  name  is  Wyer — Trevor  Wyer. " 

"Oh!" 

"Why  do  you  say  'Oh!'  like  that?" 

"My  name  is  Gautil,"  she  said,  as  though  the 
mere  mention  of  her  name  ought  to  convey  some 
meaning  to  him. 

"Does  that  explain  it?"  he  inquired. 

"I  thought,  perhaps,  it  would,"  the  girl  replied, 
somewhat  embarrassed.  "Are  you  not  Lord 
Janesford's  son?" 

"Yes,"  Wyer  answered  with  a  puzzled  look, 
"but  I'm  afraid  I  am  no  wiser." 

"Well,  you  see,"  the  girl  began  slowly,  "we 
are  your  tenants  at  Seckley  Cottage." 

"So  I  heard,"  Wyer  put  in.  "But  what  of 
that?  I'm  very  glad  that  the  old  place  is  let  at 
last." 

"Oh,  we  have  been  there  two  years,"  she  went 
on.  "But  I  am  afraid  that  fact  does  not  please 
your  father.  My  father  reads  out  extracts  from 
Lord  Janesford's  letters  at  breakfast;  that  is  how 
I  know." 

Wyer  made  a  grimace.  "My  governor  is 
rather  crusty  at  times,"  he  admitted.     "It's  the 


54  The  Pink  Sunbonnet 

gout,  you  know.  But  that  needn't  make  any 
difference  to  us,  need  it?" 

"No"— doubtfully;  "at  least,  I  think  not." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  agree,"  he  said  gravely.  "It 
would  be  rather  hard  lines  for  a  son  to  be  held 
responsible  for  his  father's  letters ;  and  my  govern- 
or wields  the  pen  rather  fiercely  when  he  likes,  as 
I  know  to  my  cost.  You  see,  I've  only  just  got 
back  home  after  six  years  in  Australia,  and  as  I 
haven't  seen  his  lordship  yet  (he's  in  Ireland,  you 
know;  we  have  an  old  ruin  there  he's  rather 
partial  to,  though  it's  in  a  bog  and  always  gives 
him  rheumatism  or  gout  or  something)  I  know 
nothing  about  his  squabbles.  A  bit  disrespectful 
that,  eh?" 

"It  is— rather." 

"Well,  you  see,"  Wyer  said,  in  excuse,  "we 
never  hit  it  off  very  wrell.  He  wanted  me  to  stay 
at  home  here  and  loaf  about,  hunt,  shoot,  and  fish, 
and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  and  I  wouldn't  have  it; 
so  I  cleared  out  to  the  Colonies,  and  did  a  bit  of 
work.  But  our  old  bailiff  died  a  few  months  ago 
and  the  governor  wrote — rather  nicely  for  the 
governor — and  said  I  could  come  back,  and — well, 
offered  me  the  job  of  looking  after  the  estate — 
what's  left  of  it,"  he  added  ruefully. 

"The  work  leaves  you  time  for  fishing,"  she 


The  Pink  Sunbonnct  55 

remarked.  "Oh,  that's  rude.  I  beg  your  par- 
don." 

Wyer's  eyes  twinkled.  "I  can  always  squeeze 
in  time  for  fishing,"  he  said  slyly.  "It's  a  most 
fascinating  sport — er — when  people  don't  lose 
their  sculls  and  send  them  floating  down-stream 
to  frighten  all  the  trout  in  the  river." 

"It  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  done  such  a 
thing, "  cried  the  girl,  half  vexed,  half  laughing. 

"Left,  please,"  she  said  suddenly.  "That  is 
our  landing-stage  over  there.  And  I  see  my 
mother  is  waiting  for  me." 

They  had  reached  a  part  where  the  willows 
fringing  the  right  bank  had  been  entirely  cut 
away.  A  broad  sweep  of  meadow,  almost  park 
land,  with  here  and  there  single  pollarded  oaks, 
ran  in  a  gentle  slope  to  the  edge  of  the  river. 
Beyond,  the  meadow  merged  into  orchard;  and 
beyond  that  again,  high  grass  banks  marked 
terraced  lawns  extending  on  the  right-hand  side  to 
a  walled  garden,  on  the  left  to  the  woods  that 
stretched  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see  down  the 
river. 

Up  on  the  hillside  in  a  background  of  copper 
beeches  nestled  Seckley  Cottage,  a  half-timbered 
residence  in  oak  and  faded  red  brick,  once  the 
Dower  House  of  the  Janesford  family,  and  until 


56  The  Pink  Sunbonnet 

let  on  long  lease  to  its  present  tenants,  fast  being 
allowed  to  degenerate  into  a  picturesque  ruin  set 
in  an  overgrown  wilderness.  Now  the  whole  pro- 
perty spoke  of  a  lavish  expenditure  on  its  up-keep 
from  the  very  incongruous-looking  vivid  green 
jalousies  recently  added  to  the  house  itself,  to  the 
neat  rustic  boathouse  and  concrete  landing-steps 
upon  which  Mrs.  Gautil  was  standing. 

Wyer  took  it  all  in  at  a  glance.  Somehow  the 
general  spick  and  span  appearance  of  the  little 
estate  did  not  please  him.  Illogically  enough,  he 
preferred  the  old  place  in  rags  and  tatters,  as 
it  were,  as  he  had  last  seen  it  before  leaving 
England. 

As  soon  as  the  boat  drew  in  to  the  landing- 
stage  the  girl  sprang  out,  before  Wyer  could  offer 
to  assist  her.  Encumbered  by  his  waders,  he  got 
out  of  the  boat  more  slowly,  and  made  fast  the 
painter  to  a  post.  Then  he  turned  and  raised  his 
cap  to  Mrs.  Gautil,  who  was  looking  with  mild 
astonishment  and  inquiring  eyes  at  her  daughter. 

Mrs.  Gautil  was  a  small,  pleasant,  rather  frail 
woman,  apparently  about  forty,  with  hair  slightly 
streaked  with  grey. 

Like  her  daughter,  she  was  dressed  very  simply. 
She  wore  no  hat,  but  carried  an  elaborate  sunshade 
of  bright  peacock-green  with  a  white  lining.     She 


The  Pink  Sunbonnet  57 

gave  the  appearance  of  being  a  little  delicate  and 
very  reserved  in  a  gentle  sort  of  way. 

Something  about  her  suggested  that  she  was  not 
of  English  birth,  a  suggestion  which  became  more 
apparent  when  she  spoke.  It  was  quite  plain 
that  she  had  given  her  eyes  to  her  daughter;  and, 
standing  cap  in  hand  waiting  to  be  introduced, 
the  Hon.  Trevor  Wyer  found  himself  prepared  to 
like  Mrs.  Gautil  for  that  reason  alone. 

"Celeste, "  murmured  Mrs.  Gautil  vaguely,  as  if 
reminding  her  daughter  of  a  duty  to  be  performed. 

"Mr.  Wyer — my  mother, "  said  the  girl,  adding: 
"I  lost  my  scull  and  got  stuck  on  a  stupid  rock. 
Mr.  Wyer  brought  the  scull  back  to  me  and  got 
the  boat  off,  and  very  kindly  pulled  me  home.  I 
hurt  my  thumb  a  little — it  is  nothing." 

"Celeste,  dear,  you  really  must  be  more  care- 
ful," said  her  mother,  in  gentle  reproof.  "You 
are  so  late,  I  quite  thought  something  dreadful 
had  happened."  Then,  turning  to  Wyer,  she 
thanked  him  politely  for  his  services,  and  asked, 
with  a  certain  diffidence,  if  he  would  care  to 
accompany  herself  and  her  daughter  to  the  house 
and  take  tea.  Mrs.  Gautil  knew  that  "Wyer" 
was  the  Janesford  family  name. 

Wyer  declined,  giving  his  costume  as  an  excuse. 
"And  I  am  rather  wet, "  he  said. 


58  The  Pink  Sunbonnet 

"Oh!"  ejaculated  Celeste,  glancing  reproach- 
fully at  him. 

"It  is  only  a  trickle,"  he  added  hastily.  "It 
has  just  got  down  to  my  feet — standing  up,  you 
see." 

" Celeste,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Gautil,  "go  to  the 
house  and  tell  Hatt  to  get  the  dog-cart  ready  to 
drive  Mr.  Wyer  home." 

"Oh!  not  for  me,  please,"  Wyer  protested.  "It 
is  such  a  long  way  round  to  the  Hall  by  road,  and  if 
I  might  borrow  the  dinghy  I  could  get  home  much 
quicker  by  water.  I  will  send  the  boat  back  to- 
night by  one  of  our  men." 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Gautil.  "But  there  is 
no  need  to  send  the  boat  back  to-night.  Some 
time  to-morrow  will  do  quite  well.  Do  not  let  us 
keep  you;  I  should  not  like  you  to  catch  cold 
through  your  kindness  to  my  daughter." 

Wyer  made  his  adieux  and  stepped  into  the 
boat.  For  a  few  moments  mother  and  daughter 
watched  him  pull  down-stream  with  long,  swinging 
strokes;  then  the  elder  lady  turned  away. 

"Come,  Celeste,  dear,"  she  urged  gently;  "you 
must  want  a  cup  of  tea.  I  rather  like  that  young 
man's  face,"  she  added  inconsequently,  as  they 
walked  slowly  up  the  meadow;  "but  I  do  not 
know  what  your  father  would  say." 


The  Pink  Sunbonnet  59 

"He's  very  plain,"  returned  her  daughter 
disparagingly;  "and  he's  shockingly  untidy." 
But  she  made  a  mental  reservation  that  plain- 
ness of  feature  and  untidiness  in  dress  were  not 
always  unbecoming  to  some  men,  though  Miss 
Gautil's  experience  of  mankind  was  of  the  very 
slightest. 

The  Hon.  Trevor  Wyer  lived  in  solitary  state, 
occupying  one  wing  of  Janesford  Hall,  a  rambling 
old  mansion  tucked  away  in  the  woods  in  an  out- 
of-the-way  corner  of  Worcestershire.  An  elderly 
man-servant  and  his  wife  shared  the  duties  of 
looking  after  Wyer's  personal  needs  and  comforts, 
and  acted  in  the  capacity  of  caretakers  of  that 
part  of  the  mansion  which  was  given  over  to  idle 
furniture  and  a  dreary  array  of  dust-sheets. 

As  Wyer  told  Celeste  Gautil,  the  present  Lord 
Janesford  preferred  to  spend  most  of  his  time  on 
another  estate  in  Ireland,  leaving  the  Worcester- 
shire property  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  late 
bailiff,  and,  until  his  son  returned  to  fill  the  vacant 
post,  Janesford  Hall,  with  its  blinds  persistently 
down. 

Of  his  mother,  Lady  Janesford,  Wyer  had  no 
recollection,  having,  by  reason  of  his  own  entrance 
into  this  world,  cost  that  gentle  creature  her  life — 
a  misfortune  to  which  the  Hon.  Trevor  in  his  heart 


60  The  Pink  Sunbonnet 

attributed  the  fact  that  he  and  his  father  could 
never  live  together  without  friction. 

Indeed,  it  was  said  about  the  countryside  that 
Lord  Janesford  never  forgave  his  son  for  being  the 
innocent  cause  of  his  wife's  death.  Whether  that 
were  true  or  not,  his  lordship's  dislike  of  residing 
at,  or  even  visiting,  Janesford  Hall  dated  from 
the  day  his  consort  had  died  there. 

On  the  morning  after  his  first  acquaintance  with 
the  tenants  of  Seckley  Cottage,  coming  in  keen  set 
from  an  early  tramp  round  the  home  farm,  Wyer 
found  two  letters  awaiting  him  on  the  breakfast 
table.  The  upper  envelope  was  addressed  in 
his  father's  loose,  almost  illegible,  scrawl;  and, 
knowing  that  parental  correspondence  was  apt  to 
be  disturbing,  Wyer,  like  a  wise  man,  turned  his 
attention  to  more  pleasant  matters — to  wit,  his 
eggs  and  bacon;  and,  let  it  be  confessed,  cer- 
tain fascinating  mind-pictures  of  the  owner  of 
a  pink  sunbonnet  and  the  most  bewitching, 
uncommon,  brown  eyes  he  thought  he  had  ever 
beheld. 

Breakfast  and  his  reflections  having  induced  a 
sense  of  complacency,  Wyer  lighted  a  pipe  and 
reached  out  a  hand  for  his  letters.  The  missive 
from  his  father  proved  characteristic,  though  of  a 
much  milder  nature  than  was  expected. 


The  Pink  Sunbonnet  61 

"Dear  Wyer, "  the  letter  began.  "Have 
your  own  way  about  the  farms.  So  long  as  the 
rents  are  paid  I  do  not  want  to  be  bothered  further. 
In  any  case,  you  cannot  do  worse  than  Pooler 
(the  late  bailiff).  I  had  it  in  my  mind  to  get  a 
look  at  you  to  see  if  Australia  had  knocked  some 
of  your  confounded  democratic — Lord,  how  I  hate 
the  word! — notions  out  of  you.  You  needed 
it. 

"N.  B. — You  are  not  to  let  the  shooting.  If 
I  am  in  Queer-street  I  will  not  have  retired  drapers 
and  tripe-dressers  aping  the  gentlemen  in  my 
coverts.  I  did  not  say  so  in  my  last  letter  but  you 
pleased  me  by  coming  home  promptly  when  I  sent 
for  you.  You  may  consider  yourself  master  at 
Janesford,  it  will  be  yours  soon  enough. 

"That  reminds  me.  The  fellow  Pooler  let 
Seckley  Cottage  to  has  recently  been  writing  direct 
to  me,  offering  to  buy.  Dash  his  impudence !  What 
is  the  world  coming  to?  Who  the  devil  is  he?  I 
have  never  met  him,  and  do  not  intend  to,  please 
God.  I  understood  from  Pooler  he  has  spent  a 
mint  of  money  on  the  place,  and  painted  the  house 
up  like  a  confounded  Italian  ice-cream  shop. 

"However,  I  bled  him  over  his  rent,  and  he  pays 
regularly,  which  is  something.  Keep  an  eye  on 
the    trees.     These    retired    hucksters    would    cut 


62  The  Pink  Sunbonnet 

down  the  finest  oak  to  make  a  stand  for  a  flower- 
pot.    I  know  the  breed. 

"Janesford. 

"P.S. — I  see  your  letter  says  Hafaryn  has 
littered.  I  thought  the  old  bitch  was  dead.  If 
you  can  pick  a  likely  dog  among  them  you  can 
send  him  over.  I  have  the  gout,  and  cannot  travel 
as  arranged.  It  is  unlikely  I  shall  come  to  Janes- 
ford  this  year.     Not  that  I  suppose  you  care. — J." 

Like  that  of  the  proverbial  woman,  Lord  Janes- 
ford's  postcript  contained  his  real  reasons  for 
writing.  Wyer  tossed  his  father's  letter  somewhat 
disrespectfully  aside,  and,  ripping  open  the  second 
envelope,  read  as  follows : 

"Nellist's  Hotel,  London. 
"My  Dear  Wyer, — When  we  said  good-bye 
at  the  docks  you  were  kind  enough  to  express  the 
hope  that  should  I  ever  happen  to  be  in  your 
neighbourhood  I  would  look  you  up.  Curiously 
enough,  I  am  passing  through  Worcestershire 
shortly,  and,  if  convenient  to  you,  should  be  very 
glad  to  renew  the  pleasurable  intimacy  formed 
during  the  weeks  we  were  thrown  together  in  the 
Orassa.  Apart  from  the  personal  motive,  your 
description  of  Janesford  Hall  and  the  country 
around  has  fired  me  with  a  keen  wish  to  appreciate 


The  Pink  Sunbonnet  63 

their  charms  with  my  own  eyes.  May  I,  then, 
trespass  for  a  few  days  on  your  hospitality,  or, 
perhaps  I  should  say,  that  of  your  father,  Lord 
Janesford? 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"George  Heron." 

"By  all  the  gold  in  Ballarat,  you  may!"  ex- 
claimed Wyer,  when  he  had  finished  reading  the 
letter.  He  went  at  once  to  a  writing-table  in 
the  window  and  dashed  off  a  cordial  invitation 
to  the  man  who  had  been  his  cabin  companion 
on  the  homeward  voyage  from  Sydney,  to  come 
"when  he  liked, "  and  stay  "as  long  as  he  liked." 

Wyer  was  genuinely  delighted,  not  only  because 
he  had  sojourned  long  enough  in  the  most  genial 
of  Colonies  to  be  imbued  with  her  true  spirit  of 
open  hospitality,  but  because  he,  too,  experienced 
that  very  unusual  desire,  a  desire  to  carry  on 
ashore  an  acquaintanceship  formed  on  board  a 
steamer. 

In  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred,  the 
spurious  intimacy  of  cabin  mates,  or,  for  that 
matter,  of  passengers  in  general,  never  survives 
the  scurry  and  bustle  caused  by  the  advent  of 
baggage  agents  (most  "pushful"  of  mortals)  at 
the    docks,   polite   though    hurriedly    murmured 


64  The  Pink  Sunbonnet 

wishes  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding.  George 
Heron,  in  Wyer's  opinion,  was  a  "  rattling  good 
sort,"  "one  of  the  best." 

When  a  young  man  in  the  twenties  applies  such 
expressions  to  a  man  who  seems  old  enough  to  be 
his  father,  one  may  usually  assume  that  the  young 
man  has  been  flattered  by  an  interest  shown 
towards  him  by  his  elder. 

But  the  Hon.  Trevor  Wyer  had  passed  the 
stage  when  his  self-esteem  might  have  been  tickled 
by  George  Heron's  evident  desire  to  be  friendly. 
That  desire  had  been  so  tactfully  displayed,  and 
the  man  himself  had  such  an  engaging  and  interest- 
ing personality,  that  Wyer  had  been  compelled, 
almost,  to  respond. 

His  invitation  to  his  cabin  mate  at  the  docks 
had  been  perfectly  sincere ;  and  it  was  all  the  more 
hearty  because  he  felt  sanguine  that  George  Heron 
would  find  favour  with  Lord  Janesford.  Never- 
theless, Wyer  now  felt  a  trifle  relieved  that  his 
friend  would  not  have  to  pass  the  test  of  his  lord- 
ship's critical  eye. 

Another  thing  that  enabled  Wyer  to  feel  re- 
signed to  his  father's  absence  was  the  injunction 
laid  upon  him  to  keep  a  watchful  eye  on  the  trees 
at  Seckley  Cottage,  a  duty  the  Hon.  Trevor 
quickly  decided  he  would  begin  forthwith. 


The  Pink  Sunbonnet  65 

He  suddenly  remembered  he  had  not  yet  given 
any  orders  concerning  the  return  of  the  dinghy  he 
had  borrowed  the  day  before,  and  it  occurred  to 
him  that  it  would,  perhaps,  be  only  polite  to  take 
the  boat  back  in  person. 

Four  o'clock  that  afternoon  found  Wyer  ap- 
proaching the  Seckley  landing -steps.  Glancing 
over  his  right  shoulder  as  he  came  in  sight  of  the 
house,  he  perceived  a  figure  in  a  brown  holland 
dress  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  upper  lawn,  and 
apparently  gazing  down  towards  the  river. 

With  a  philosophy  that  was  at  least  hopeful, 
he  made  fast  the  boat  to  the  mooring-post,  and, 
pulling  out  a  pipe,  awaited  events.  They  came 
to  him  in  the  person  of  the  wearer  of  the  brown 
holland  dress,  a  little  breathless,  as  if  she  had  been 
running. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Celeste  Gautil,  as  she  arrived 
at  the  top  of  the  steps  and  looked  down.  "I 
thought  it  was  one  of  your  men ;  and  I  ran  down  to 
tell  him  what  to  do  with  the  boat." 

Wyer  pocketed  his  pipe.  "I  hoped  you  would 
come,"  he  replied  truthfully.  "I  was  wondering 
what  to  do  with  the  dinghy" — untruthfully. 

He  ran  up  the  steps  and  held  out  his  hand. 
"How  do  you  do?"  he  inquired. 


CHAPTER  II 

GEORGE  HERON 

'"PHE  light  bay  mare  between  the  shafts  of  the 
*  high  dog-cart  fretted  and  fussed,  refusing  to 
stand  still.  Of  aristocratic  descent,  strongly  con- 
servative, she  wished  to  express  her  disgust  with  the 
modern  plebeian  monster  now  hissing  forth  its 
vulgar  steam  breath  as  it  left  the  little  railway 
station  of  Ardley. 

"Steady,  Primrose!"  The  Hon.  Trevor  Wyer 
coaxed  her.  "Steady,  old  girl!"  Then  he  flour- 
ished his  whip  in  the  direction  of  a  man  who 
at  that  moment  emerged  from  the  booking-hall, 
followed  by  a  youthful,  bow-legged  porter  carrying 
a  capacious  leathern  kit-bag. 

"Hullo,  Heron!  Thundering  glad  to  see  you." 
The  expression  upon  Wyer's  healthily  red,  good- 
humoured  face  was  a  welcome  in  itself.  "Don't 
mind  the  mare,"  he  went  on;  "she's  pretending 
she's  never  seen  a  train  before.  She'll  be  all  right 
as  soon  as  we  get  started." 

66 


George  Heron  67 

"I'm  not  nervous, "  replied  George  Heron,  with 
a  smile,  glancing  approvingly  at  the  mare.  With- 
out more  ado,  he  came  quickly  to  the  side  of  the 
lurching  dog-cart  and  sprang  in,  barely  touching 
the  step  with  his  foot. 

Heron  was  slightly  above  the  average  height; 
and  a  loose  suit  of  tweeds  somehow  gave  the  effect 
of  trying  to  conceal  bulkiness.  Bulkiness,  how- 
ever, when  applied  to  Heron,  is  not  a  very  apt 
term.  Had  he  been  shorter,  "  stockiness,"  perhaps 
would  be  more  suitable  to  his  build. 

There  was  determination  in  the  eyes  and  in  the 
jaw  beneath  the  grey,  pointed  beard;  the  mous- 
tache, curiously  enough,  was  of  a  much  darker 
hue;  undeniably  a  strong  face,  bronzed  with  that 
unmistakable  sallow  tinge  that  stamps  men  who 
have  passed  many  years  in  hot  climates.  In  age, 
Heron  was  certainly  on  the  wrong  side  of  forty. 

Judging  from  his  general  appearance,  the  agility 
he  had  displayed  was  distinctly  remarkable,  and 
it  called  forth  the  comment  from  Wyer: 

"No  need  to  ask  how  you  are!"  Then  to  the 
porter:  "Bag  in,  Jim?  Right,  then.  Stand 
clear.     Now,  Primrose,  away  you  go." 

They  swung  out  of  the  little  station  approach, 
shaving  the  post  of  the  big  white  gate,  and  turned 
sharply  to  the  right  over  the  ivy-covered  bridge 


68  George  Heron 

spanning  the  line.  The  mare  gave  one  quick 
burst  of  speed  up  the  steep  hill;  then,  apparently, 
she  came  to  the  conclusion  that,  perhaps,  after 
all,  her  behaviour  was  a  little  unladylike,  and  she 
settled  down  sedately  to  the  long  climb  in  front  of 
her. 

"Thought  you'd  think  better  of  it,"  observed 
her  driver. 

"  Nothing  like  hard  work  to  cure  the  fidgets," 
said  Heron,  "in  man  or  beast." 

Wyer  laughed.  "Oh,  Primrose  only  pretends,  " 
he  replied.  "Don't  you,  old  girl?"  He  drew 
the  lash  of  the  whip  gently  across  her  neck,  and 
the  mare  tossed  her  head  daintily  in  response. 
Then  he  half  turned  round  and  pointed  down  the 
valley  behind  them. 

1 '  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?"  he  asked  ' '  Could 
Australia  beat  that,  eh?  Whoa,  Primrose.  Take 
it  easy  for  a  bit,  old  girl,  while  we  fill  our  souls  with 
Nature's  own  beauty  spot.  I  didn't  know  I  was 
so  poetic!" 

"No,"  said  Heron,  after  a  pause.  He  spoke 
slowly,  in  tones  of  genuine  appreciation.  "In 
nowhere  but  England  could  you  get  such  a  view 
as  that.  It  is — I  have  no  adjective  for  it — it  is 
just  England;  neither  grand  nor  startling;  yet  it 
steals  on  the  senses,  and  every  jot  pleases. 


George  Heron  69 

"Look  at  that  vivid  splash  of  green  on  the  edge 
of  the  golden  brown  of  the  oaks,"  continued 
Heron.  "And  the  river,  it  is  not  too  insistent;  it 
is  more  a  succession  of  pools.  One  expects  a 
trickling  waterfall  between  each.  What  is  the 
village  down  there?" 

He  pointed  over  the  trees  to  a  tiny  cluster  of 
cottages,  some  of  red  brick  and  tiles  mellowed  by 
time  and  weather  into  harmony  with  the  sur- 
rounding colours;  others  of  black,  and  white,  and 
grey  tarred  oak,  humble  whitewash,  and  ancient 
thatching  straw. 

"That's  Seckley  village, "  replied  Wyer.  "The 
line  of  poplars  you  can  see  in  the  far  distance 
running  right  up  the  opposite  bank  marks  the 
end  of  the  Janesford  property;  on  this  side  the 
estate  comes  up  to  the  road  we  are  in.  It  is  nearly 
all  forest  land  on  both  sides;  button  or  scrub  oak 
for  the  most  part. 

"The  Hall  itself  is  a  good  seven  miles  from  here, 
down  on  the  right  beyond  that  point  of  the  wood. 
Beaudelay  is  our  proper  station,  but  I  told  you  in 
my  letter  to  come  on  to  Ardley,  because  I  wanted 
you  to  get  your  first  impressions  from  here.  Glad 
you  like  it.     The  road  home  isn't  too  bad,  either." 

"Like  it!"  cried  Heron.  "I  am  enchanted. 
Goodness  knows,    I    am    no    sentimentalist,   but 


70  George  Heron 

I  have  known  scenery  appeal  to  me  when  I  was 
starving  and  shirtless." 

Wyer  laughed,  and  chirruped  to  the  mare  to  get 
on.  "Well,  you'll  get  plenty  of  appeals  in  this 
neighbourhood,"  he  remarked,  "though  I'm  bound 
to  say  I  staked  my  reputation  for  truth  on  that 
view.  Meanwhile,  we're  famishing  for  a  cup  of 
tea,  eh?  The  Colonies  make  a  fellow  a  regular  old 
almshouse  woman  for  tea,  don't  they?  Gee  up, 
lass." 

Chatting  easily,  they  came  to  the  top  of  the  hill, 
crossed  a  piece  of  common  land,  its  sole  occupant 
a  deserted  blacksmith's  forge,  and  turned  parallel 
to  the  river  valley  into  a  road  that  seemed  to 
switch  back  and  twist  and  lose  itself  in  a  forest  of 
"button"  oaks. 

Occasionally,  as  they  descended  a  dip  in  the 
road,  they  caught  glimpses  of  the  winding  river 
and  the  corresponding  wooded  heights  beyond, 
while  on  their  right,  over  a  vast  sea  of  undulating 
brown  tree-tops,  they  could  see  the  hazy,  bluish 
outline  of  the  far  distant  Malvern  Hills.  Straight 
ahead  there  were  more  hills,  and  the  sun  was 
flashing  on  the  windows  of  a  house,  itself  invisible. 

A  mile  from  the  common,  at  one  of  the  dips  in 
the  road,  they  came  unexpectedly  upon  a  pair  of 
old  wrought-iron  drive  gates  and  a  creeper-covered 


George  Heron  71 

lodge,  evidently  vacant,  set  back  in  the  wood.  A 
drive  went  curving  away  among  the  trees  down  the 
hillside,  leading  to  a  house,  one  gable  of  which 
could  just  be  seen  peeping  through  an  opening  in 
some  copper  beeches  below.  Wyer  checked  the 
mare,  and  pointed  with  his  whip. 

"That's  Seckley  Cottage, "  he  explained.  "The 
old  dower  house,  you  remember,  I  spoke  about. 
It  is  let  to  a  chap  called  Gautil  now." 

"  Bah ! "  exclaimed  Heron.     "  He's  an  infidel." 

"Eh?     How  much?" 

"An  infidel.  How  else  could  he  have  paint- 
ed that  charming  old  house  like  that?  It 
offends  my  sense  of  the  beautiful.  Let  us  drive 
on." 

"It  is  rather  a  daub,  I  must  confess,"  agreed 
Wyer,  laughingly,  "and  you're  not  the  only  one 
to  gibe  at  it.  Our  late  bailiff,  Pooler,  must  have 
opened  out  his  sturdy  old  soul  on  the  subject  of 
paint  in  his  reports  to  my  governor,  for  his  lordship 
is  considerably  touchy  about  it,  I  can  tell  you. 
It's  rather  fortunate,  all  things  considered,  for 
the  peace  of  this  quiet  locality,  that  my  governor 
prefers  his  Irish  place.  He  doesn't  cotton  to  his 
tenant  at  Seckley  Cottage,  judging  by  his  letters 
to  me ;  and  I  believe  he  has  laid  it  on  pretty  stiffish 
in  the  letters  he  has  favoured  Gautil  with.     And 


72  George  Heron 

if  they  met,  my  governor  would — well,  his  pen  isn't 
a  patch  on  his  tongue  for  vitriol." 

"And  Gautil?"  inquired  Heron. 

"Can't  speak  for  him,"  said  Wyer,  "for  I 
haven't  yet  made  the  gentleman's  acquaintance. 
He's  away  on  business  somewhere." 

"Oh!  what  is  he?" 

Wyer  laughed.  "Hanged  if  I  know,"  he 
replied;  "a  financier  of  sorts,  I  believe." 

"A  wide  term,  eh?" 

"I  suppose  it  is.  Anyway,  he's  found  the  oof- 
bird's  nest — rakes  in  plenty  of  shekels  from  some- 
where. He  has  spent  a  mint  of  money  on  the 
place.  I  can't  think  why  he  keeps  the  lodge 
empty,  though.  I  don't  think  he  is  'retired,'  for 
I  understand  he  has  an  office  somewhere  in 
London,  and  a  town  house,  too,  though  the  family 
live  here  mostly." 

"He  has  a  family,  then?" 

"Yes.  A  wife  and  daughter,  and  jolly  decent 
people  they  are.  But  you'll  meet  them,  I  hope; 
that  is,  if  you  care  to." 

"By  all  means,"  returned  Heron.  "I  feel 
rather  interested  in  the  Gautils.  An  unusual 
name.     Not  English,  surely?" 

"Couldn't    say,"    replied    Wyer    indifTeren 
"though  Mrs.  Gautil  strikes  me  as  being  forc: 


George  Heron  73 

French,  for  a  guess.  But  I'm  no  judge.  Celes — 
I  mean,  Miss  Gautil — seems  English  enough." 

Heron  repressed  a  smile.  "Ah,"  he  remarked, 
"and  Miss  Gautil,  what  is  she  like?" 

"Unsophisticated,"  Wyer  replied;  "absolutely- 
unsophisticated  . ' ' 

He  spoke  slowly,  as  though  he  were  chary  of 
letting  such  a  long  word  slip  from  his  tongue. 
Perhaps  he  was  not  quite  sure  of  its  exact  meaning, 
despite  his  Eton  and  Oxford  education.  But 
evidently  the  adjective  was  meant  as  a  compli- 
ment to  Miss  Gautil ;  and  after  a  covert  glance  at 
his  friend's  face,  George  Heron  deemed  it  expedient 
to  ask  no  further  questions  about  her. 

One  of  the  chief  reasons  why  Trevor  Wyer  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  Heron  lay  in  the  elder  man's 
habit  of  being  tactfully  silent,  intuitively  knowing 
when  questions  would  be  unwelcome.  Nothing 
repels  a  youth  so  much  as  an  elder  who  shows  his 
interest  by  a  persistent  shower  of  questions. 

"Jimmy!  What  luck!"  exclaimed  Wyer  sud- 
denly.    "I  believe  here  they  are." 

As  he  spoke,  round  a  bend  in  the  road,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  jingling  harness  bells,  trotted 
a  pair  of  diminutive  Shetland  ponies  drawing  a 
low  phaeton  occupied  by  two  ladies,  one  of  whom 
was  driving. 


74  George  Heron 

By  way  of  an  invitation,  Wyer  pulled  the  mare 
to  one  side  of  the  road  and  stopped,  taking  off  his 
hat  with  a  gay  flourish.  When  abreast  of  the  dog- 
cart the  phaeton  stopped  also,  and  Wyer  exchanged 
greetings  with  its  occupants. 

"I'm  so  glad  we  met,"  he  said  eagerly.  "Let 
me  take  the  opportunity  of  introducing  my  friend 
Mr.  Heron — Mrs.  Gau til— Miss  Gautil." 

George  Heron  gave  a  start,  as  if  his  thoughts 
had  been  elsewhere;  then  he  raised  his  hat,  inclin- 
ing his  head  with  grave  courtesy  towards  each 
lady  in  turn. 

Ever  since  the  phaeton  had  drawn  near,  his 
gaze  had  been  riveted  upon  the  face  of  the  girl 
holding  the  reins.  Becoming  aware  of  this,  Miss 
Gautil  raised- her  eyebrows  slightly,  then  flushed 
a  little  and  turned  her  head  away. 

"Will  you  bring  Mr.  Heron  to  see  us?"  Mrs. 
Gautil  inquired  of  Wyer.  "Shall  we  say,  dinner, 
to-morrow  at  eight?" 

Wyer's  acceptances  were  somewhat  disjointed. 
Primrose,  impatient  to  regain  the  stable,  claimed 
most  of  his  attention.  A  little  nervously,  Mrs. 
Gautil  made  the  suggestion  that  it  would  be  advis- 
able to  drive  on. 

"What  a  good-looking  man!"  that  lady  re- 
marked a  little  later. 


George  Heron  75 

"Do  you  think  so?"  replied  Celeste.  "He 
reminds  me  of  what  I  imagine  a  Red  Indian  to  be — 
that  is,  if  he  were  clean-shaven.  Did  you  notice 
how  savagely  he  glared  at  me?  I  think  he  could 
be  awfully  cruel.     His  eyes  are  horrid." 

"Did  he  stare?"  inquired  her  mother  mildly. 
"I  did  not  notice.  I  expect  you  fancied  it,  dear. 
Mr.  Heron  seems  reserved  —  perhaps  a  little 
stern;  but  I  rather  liked  him;  he  looks  so  dis- 
tinguished!" 

Mrs.  Gautil  was  a  lady  who  passed  through  life 
trying  to  "rather  like"  people,  and,  as  a  result, 
people  in  their  turn  found  her  very  easy  to  get  on 
with;  some,  notably  the  occupants  of  the  pictur- 
esque though  shockingly  insanitary  cottages  of 
Seckley  village,  used  Mrs.  Gautil's  Christian  vir- 
tue as  a  highroad  to  imposition.  But  then  the 
cottagers  regarded  the  Gautils  as  foreigners,  and 
since  the  foreigners  were  rich,  they  were  lawfully 
to  be  despoiled. 

For  some  time  after  the  carriages  had  separated 
Wyer  was  preoccupied.  He  had  noticed  Celeste 
Gautil's  slight  flush  and  turn  of  the  head,  and  he 
was  now  puzzling  his  brains  to  find  the  cause,  for 
with  youthful  arrogance  he  attributed  the  girl's 
attitude  to  being  in  some  way  connected  with 
himself. 


76  George  Heron 

George  Heron,  also,  seemed  disinclined  for 
speech.  He,  too,  was  thinking  of  Celeste  Gautil, 
not  on  account  of  the  natural  signs  of  embarrass- 
ment or  displeasure  she  had  evinced,  for  he  was 
fully  aware  that  they  had  been  provoked  by  his 
unconsciously  prolonged  stare,  but  because  at  the 
very  first  glance  at  her  face  he  had  been  reminded, 
as  in  a  flash,  of  a  man  he  had  known  well  nearly 
twenty  years  ago,  a  man  whom  others  might  have 
labelled  "pretty" — a  man  whom  George  Heron 
desired  to  meet  again  more  than  he  desired  any- 
thing on  earth. 

He  had  lost  the  resemblance  when  the  girl  came 
nearer  and  he  saw  her  eyes,  and  he  had  stared, 
vainly  trying  to  recover  it;  but  it  had  gone.  Yet 
he  had  seen  the  resemblance,  he  was  positive;  it 
was  unmistakable. 

George  Heron's  eyes  were  fixed  straight  ahead 
of  him,  but  he  saw  nothing  of  the  trees  and  the 
distant  hills.  What  he  did  see,  or  what  he  was 
thinking  about,  could  not  have  been  pleasant ;  and 
had  Mrs.  Gautil  seen  his  face  at  that  moment  she 
would  have  been  forced  to  agree  with  her  daughter. 
Heron's  face  was  not  merely  "horrid,"  it  was  the 
face  of  a  fiend. 

Glancing  down,  Wyer  happened  to  notice  his 
companion's  hands,  tightly  clenched  and  pressing 


George  Heron  77 

on  the  rug  covering  their  knees ;  and  he  was  struck 
by  the  abnormal  development  of  the  muscles 
between  the  thumbs  and  forefingers. 

"Gad!"  Wyer  ejaculated.  "I  shouldn't  like 
to  come  to  grips  with  you;  and  I'm  no  chicken, 
either." 

The  joking  remark  broke  the  spell.  Heron 
turned  towards  Wyer  with  a  pleasant  smile.  The 
change  was  instantaneous;  almost  beyond  belief. 
"What  made  you  say  that?"  he  asked. 

"Your  'bunch  of  fives,'"  replied  Wyer  slangily. 
"They're  like  a  prize-fighter's,  or  a  Jap  dentist- 
man's.     You  must  have  a  tremendous  grip." 

"Tolerable,"  agreed  Heron  complacently. 
"And,  since  you  mention  it,  I  did  once  pull  a  man's 
tooth  out,  a  double  one,  with  my  finger  and  thumb 
— like  that."     He  suited  the  action  to  the  word. 

"Great  Smoke!"  exclaimed  Wyer.  " Yanked 
his  tooth  out!     Why?" 

"He  annoyed  me,"  said  Heron,  with  a  grim 
laugh. 

Wyer  whistled.  "Poor  wretch!"  he  remarked. 
"I  say,  I  must  get  that  yarn  out  of  you.  You 
never  told  me  that  one." 

Heron  laughed  again,  and  changed  the  subject 
abruptly.  "How  like  her  mother  Miss  Gautil  is, " 
he  observed  mendaciously. 


78  George  Heron 

"Got  the  same  eyes,"  returned  Wyer,  flicking 
the  mare  on  the  shoulder  with  the  whip.  "See 
that  horse-fly?  But  otherwise  I  don't  think  so. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  though  I  haven't  seen  him, 
she's  supposed  to  feature  her  pa  (as  the  yokels  say 
round  here)  when  he  was  young." 

"He  must  have  been  a  remarkably  good-looking 
man.  Is  that  Janesford  Hall  I  see  down  there?" 
Heron  inquired  with  sudden  interest. 

"Yes,  that's  the  old  place,"  replied  Wyer 
affectionately.  "Looks  rather  a  lordly  pile  from 
here,  doesn't  it?  But  I'm  afraid  it's  little  better 
than  a  glorified  farmhouse,  as  things  are  at  present. 
Heigho !  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  poor. 

"Thank  heaven,  though,  I'm  not  proud,  or  I'd 
have  thought  twice  before  asking  you  to  come 
down.  I  warned  you  it  would  be  like  eating  a 
halfpenny  bun  in  dress-clothes  at  the  Savoy. 
Get  along  now,  Primrose!  I  want  my  tea,  even 
if  you  don't." 

They  dropped  at  a  smart  pace  down  the  sunlit 
road,  and  presently,  leaving  the  forest  land  behind 
them,  came  into  more  open  country  and  to  the 
level.  Here  the  road  crossed  a  small  stream  and 
ran  along  the  river  bank,  bounding  an  extensive 
flat  meadow  belonging  to  the  home  farm. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  farther  on,  the  meadow  was 


George  Heron  79 

intersected  by  an  avenue  of  tall  elms  leading  to 
Janesford  Hall.  The  mansion  itself  stood  on  an 
artificially  made  plateau  on  the  slope  of  a  thickly 
wooded  hill,  round  the  foot  of  which  road  and 
river  curved  until  lost  to  sight,  apparently  blocked 
by  a  red  sandstone  bluff  rising  sharply  on  the  oppo- 
site bank. 

Beyond  the  avenue  the  meadow  became  park; 
but  a  herd  of  white-faced,  straight-backed  Here- 
fords  indicated  that  the  land  was  no  longer  merely 
ornamental. 

Janesford  Hall,  though  set  in  a  position  of 
exceptional  beauty,  exhibited  all  the  signs  of 
departed  affluence.  The  big,  iron-studded  doors 
of  the  main  staircase,  Gothic  arched,  were  shut 
tight  and  barred. 

Even  with  the  sunlight  slanting  across  its  front, 
the  mansion  looked  forlorn  and  needy,  and  the 
occupied  wing,  with  its  open  windows  and  attempt 
at  cheerfulness,  only  seemed  to  emphasise  the 
appearance  of  apathy  suggested  by  the  rest  of  the 
building.  Wyer  drove  the  dog-cart  into  a  court- 
yard, and  gave  the  mare  into  the  charge  of  a  stable 
lad  who  came  running  out  munching  his  jaws  as 
though  he  had  been  interrupted  at  a  meal;  then, 
after  giving  instructions  about  the  kit-bag,  Wyer 
led  the  way  through  a  shrubbery  towards  the  Hall. 


80  George  Heron 

Striding  up  a  flight  of  stone  steps,  he  flung  open 
a  church-like,  ancient  door  in  a  little  porch  way, 
and  held  out  his  hand  to  his  guest. 

11  Wei  come  to  Janesford!" 

The  words  rang  true.  In  spite  of  his  rough  life 
for  the  past  six  years,  in  spite  of  what  Lord  Janes- 
ford  called  his  son's  democratic  nonsense,  his  love 
of  manual  labour,  his  habitual  slang,  and  his 
almost  boyish  disregard  of  convention,  Wyer 
momentarily  assumed  a  dignity  that  was  perfectly 
natural. 

It  was  as  if  he  were  carrying  on  unconsciously 
a  tradition  handed  down  through  a  long  line  of 
ancestors,  that  the  formal  words  of  welcome  must 
be  uttered — even  at  a  side  entrance. 

His  guest  responded  in  an  apt  sentence,  his 
manner  perfectly  in  accord  with  that  of  his  host. 

Nevertheless,  during  the  next  few  hours  George 
Heron  experienced  disappointment  many  times 
over.  His  young  host's  attitude  towards  him  and 
his  engaging  frankness  would  have  gratified  the 
most  churlish  of  guests. 

Janesford  Hall  was  set  in  a  veritable  bower  of 
loveliness,  to  whose  charms  a  man  less  suscepti- 
ble to  nature's  beauty  than  Heron  must  have 
succumbed;  but  George  Heron  had  expected 
more. 


George  Heron  81 

Although,  on  board  the  Orassa,  Wyer  had  been 
quite  open  on  the  subject  of  his  life  and  his  own 
lack  of  this  world's  goods,  he  never  discussed  the 
poverty-stricken  condition  of  his  father's  property, 
beyond,  perhaps,  a  jocular  allusion  to  which  no 
one  gave  any  attention. 

And  George  Heron,  in  paying  a  visit  to  Janes- 
ford  Hall,  had  expected  at  the  least  to  find  that 
mansion  stocked  with  the  objects  of  historical 
interest  and  value  with  which  an  old  family  is 
wont  to  beautify  its  ancestral  home. 

Janesford  Hall  certainly  possessed  objects  of 
historical  interest  and  value;  but  except  with  the 
aid  of  an  army  of  carpenters  and  furniture  vans, 
they  could  hardly  be  removed. 

When  he  had  retired  to  his  bedroom  for  the 
night,  George  Heron  pondered  not  a  little  grimly 
over  this  fact.  He  fingered  the  bed-linen,  and 
acknowledged  that  its  texture  was  of  the  finest ;  he 
glanced  round  the  room  at  the  furniture,  at  the 
panelling  on  walls  and  ceiling,  and  he  saw  that 
both  were  of  oak,  carved,  for  the  most  part,  and 
black,  polished  by  the  labour  of  years. 

Other  rooms  through  which  he  had  been  con- 
ducted by  his  host  on  a  round  of  inspection,  though 
marred  by  the  inevitable  dreary  dust- sheets,  had 
given  the  same  impression ;  everything  was  ancient, 

6 


82  George  Heron 

good,  solid,  and  valuable — but,  for  Heron's 
purpose,  immovable. 

For  instance,  there  should  have  been  cabinets 
containing  costly  gems  of  the  potter's  art;  the 
cabinets  were  there — but,  empty.  Even  the 
spacious  drawing-rooms  were  dismantled,  their 
walls  bare;  and  they  were  devoid  of  a  single 
knick-knack. 

It  came  as  a  surprise  to  George  Heron  to  learn 
that  the  mansion  had  remained  empty  for  years, 
until  Trevor  Wyer  came  home  to  act  as  his  father's 
bailiff. 

As  for  the  plate  used  at  dinner,  it  was  modern 
and  of  no  value;  purchased,  in  all  probability, 
quite  recently  for  Wyer's  use. 

There  was  one  exception.  In  the  long  gallery, 
hung  with  portraits  of  departed  Wyers,  Janesfords, 
and  their  dames,  George  Heron  had  noticed  an 
oil  painting  of  a  lady  in  rich,  brocaded  Court  dress, 
with  one  hand  pressed  as  if  to  display  the  beauty 
of  its  proportions  against  her  bosom. 

The  painting  was  worthy  of  further  considera- 
tion; possibly  a  Romney,  this  observant  guest 
thought;  and,  if  so,  the  "little  Dutchman"  might 
make  some  use  of  it  through  his  American  agency. 

But  it  was  a  trifle;  and,  at  all  events,  the  por- 
trait should  remain  in  its  accustomed  place  un- 


George  Heron  83 

disturbed  for  the  present.  The  library  might 
offer  a  field  for  enterprise;  but  .  .  . 

Heron  gave  a  short  laugh  like  a  man  self- 
convicted,  good-humouredly  enough,  of  coming 
on  a  fool's  errand.  But  he  had  no  intention  of 
unduly  cutting  short  his  visit  because  of  his  dis- 
appointment. He  would  stay  three  days  as  he 
had  arranged.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to  get  an 
invitation  for  a  second  visit  if  one  proved  desirable. 

Janesford  Hall  had  drawn  blank;  there  still 
remained  possible  compensation — Seckley  Cottage, 
the  home  of  Gautil  the  wealthy,  the  collector. 
That  invitation  to  dinner  was  lucky.  Ah! — 
Gautil! 

"Who  was  this  Gautil?" 

George  Heron  became  thoughtful  as  he  asked 
himself  the  question.  He  had  asked  it  a  hundred 
times  since  meeting  Gau til's  daughter. 

He  poured  out  a  glass  of  whiskey  and  water 
which  had  been  hospitably  placed  upon  an  old 
gate-leg  table  by  his  bedside;  then,  having  lighted 
a  cigar,  he  blew  out  the  candles  and  went  towards 
the  open  window. 

Sitting  there  on  a  wide  box-seat,  and  gazing 
out  into  the  moonlight  over  the  long,  interlaced 
shadows  of  the  tall  elms  in  the  avenue  to  the  river 
winding  like  a  ribbon  of  silver  up  the  valley,  Heron 


84  George  Heron 

reconstructed  in  his  mind  all  that  he  had  been  able 
to  glean  from  his  young  host  about  the  tenants  of 
Seckley  Cottage. 

It  was  not  much;  and  the  source  of  Wyer's 
information  was  very  evident.  But  it  must  have 
been  interesting,  unaccountably  interesting,  to 
keep  this  stranger  from  his  bed,  thinking  and 
thinking,  until  the  moon  herself  paled  in  the  first 
flush  of  dawn. 

And  yet,  what  did  the  information  amount  to? 

The  Gautils,  Wyer  had  said,  possessed  another 
house  in  London  in  Brantworth  Square ;  but  it  was 
only  occupied  for  a  few  months  in  the  winter. 

They  lived  quietly,  their  wealth  notwithstand- 
ing ;  they  attended  no  big  functions,  and  apparently 
had  no  social  aspirations.  At  their  town  house 
they  did  not  entertain.  Sebastien  Gautil,  the 
father,  was  adamant  thereon;  at  Seckley  Cottage 
he  allowed  his  wife  and  daughter  to  follow  their 
inclinations,  which,  in  such  an  isolated  spot,  did 
not  give  them  much  scope,  had  they  wished  it, 
even. 

Mrs.  Gautil  gave  freely,  but  quietly,  in  charity; 
but  she  shrank  from  playing  the  Lady  Bountiful, 
or  that  objectionable  r61e,  the  "nouveau-riche" 
squiress.  In  fact,  she  was  a  "jolly  decent  sort  of 
woman." 


George  Heron  85 

She  had  been  educated  at  a  Roman  Catholic 
institution  in  Cape  Colony;  her  parents  (French, 
Wyer  fancied)  had  been  massacred  in  a  native 
rising  by  their  own  black  servants.  At  the  age  of 
seventeen  she  had  married  Gautil  in  Cape  Town, 
and  when,  after  a  year,  Celeste,  their  daughter, 
was  born,  the  family  had  left  South  Africa  and 
sailed  for  England. 

For  many  years  they  had  lived  quietly  in 
London,  apparently,  with  frequent  changes  of 
residence;  then  Gautil  had  bought  the  house  in 
Brantworth  Square,  and,  finally,  not  quite  two 
years  ago,  he  had  obtained  a  long  lease  of  Seckley 
Cottage. 

He  intended  selling  the  town  house,  and,  no 
doubt,  was  about  to  retire  from  business — what- 
ever that  might  be;  Wyer  did  not  know;  and  his 
informant  had  seemed  equally  vague;  though  she 
thought  that  her  father  had  a  " musty  old  office" 
somewhere  in  the  City. 

Sebastien  Gautil  was  often  away,  as  he  was  at 
present;  no  one  seemed  to  know  quite  where  he 
went  to;  it  seemed  to  be  a  condition  of  things 
accepted  without  surprise  by  his  family.  Evi- 
dently Gautil  was  a  silent  man,  and  did  not  bring 
his  business  to  his  home. 

Mrs.   Gautil  and  her  daughter  spoke  of  him 


86  George  Heron 

with  affection.  He  had  a  hobby.  Sebastien 
Gautil  "collected."  At  Seckley  Cottage  there 
was  a  room  (Wyer  called  it  a  " bally  museum") 
filled  with  all  manner  of  things.  Wyer  supposed 
they  were  valuable,  for  a  retired  soldier,  Thomas 
Hatt  by  name,  was  employed  to  keep  a  watchful 
eye  on  the  collection;  and  he  slept  in  a  small 
chamber  built  into  the  museum  by  Gautil. 

Wyer  had  expressed  a  doubt  that  Lord  Janes- 
ford  knew  of  this  addition  of  bricks  and  mortar. 

A  young  man's  reserve  in  certain  matters  is 
invariably  transparent.  With  regard  to  Celeste 
Gautil,  the  Hon.  Trevor  had  been  uncommunica- 
tive ;  perhaps  the  time  for  confidence  was  not  ripe ; 
perhaps — and  Heron  remembered  Wyer's  manner 
in  the  little  porch — that  time  would  never  come. 
"It  did  not  signify, "  as  Captain  Black  would  have 
said. 

But  the  meeting  with  Celeste  Gautil  was  still 
fresh  in  George  Heron's  mind.  And  had  not 
Wyer  told  him  that  the  girl  was  said  to  resemble 
her  father  in  his  younger  days?  Probably  her 
mother  had  fondly  made  that  remark,  and  she 
would  know. 

Ah,  that  resemblance! 

Who  was  this  Gautil? 

Dawn   was   coming  in   over   the   woody   ridge 


George  Heron  87 

behind  the  sandstone  bluff.  George  Heron  stood 
up,  the  butt  of  a  cigar,  long  cold,  gripped  between 
his  teeth.  He  gazed  at  the  faint  tints  of  rosy  pink 
streaking  the  sky,  and  stretched  out  his  arms  with 
an  unconsciously  dramatic  abandon. 

"Is  it  my  luck?"  he  demanded  of  the  dawn. 
"Is  it— is  it?" 


CHAPTER  III 

ROOM  NO.  20,  AT  THE  BECHE  NOIRE 

T  T  NTIL  the  conflagration  deservedly  put  an  end 
^  to  its  existence  and  cleansed  Paris  of  a 
"sore,"  the  Beche  Noire  occupied  the  whole  of  one 
side  of  the  short,  blind  street  called  "  La  Bouteille." 

At  the  end  of  "the  Bottle, "  leading  to  a  quay  by 
the  Seine,  a  narrow  alley  ran  tunnel-wise  under  a 
warehouse  which,  stretching  its  dirty,  windowless 
rear  walls  across  "the  Bottle,"  barred  further 
progress  to  anything  requiring  more  space  than 
pedestrians  walking  two  abreast. 

Nominally  a  cafe,  the  Beche  Noire  consisted  of 
three  houses,  of  which  the  ground  floor  of  two  had 
been  converted  into  a  restaurant  opening  on  to  the 
pavement,  and,  at  the  back,  through  a  wide 
curtained  doorway,  into  a  spacious  dancing-hall, 
which  possessed  at  one  end  a  gallery  for  "specta- 
tors." 

The  ground  floor  of  the  third  house  was  un- 
known to  the  patrons  of  the  restaurant  proper. 

88 


Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire       89 

To  all  appearances  the  street-door  courted  no 
admittance.  It  possessed  no  handle;  there  was 
no  bell,  and  no  amount  of  knocking  on  its  dingy- 
green  panels  would  have  availed,  had  one  thereby- 
sought  entrance. 

To  a  certain  limited  set  of  persons,  however, 
the  "third  house"  had  attractions.  For  them  the 
obdurate  door  would  open  almost  directly  on  to  a 
dim  staircase  leading  past  a  grille  (not  unlike  a 
ticket  office  on  a  theatre  stairway)  to  a  maze  of 
passages  on  the  upper  floors  of  the  cafe,  whereon 
were  numerous  cabinets  particuliers. 

Silent,  unobtrusive,  masked,  as  it  were,  by  the 
glare  of  its  restaurant  and  dancing-saloon,  the  real 
Beche  Noire  offered  a  highly  satisfactory  meeting- 
place  for  those  who  required  absolute  privacy,  an 
attribute  which  M.  Josephs,  the  proprietor,  never 
failed  volubly  to  assure  his  patrons  they  could 
always  rely  upon  in  the  "special  section"  of  his 
establishment. 

Monsieur's  patrons,  certainly,  were  not  in  the 
habit  of  mentioning  even  to  their  intimates  their 
knowledge  of  the  private  door,  which,  after  all, 
to  open  only  required  a  vigorous  push  on  one 
panel,  whereupon  it  swung  to  quickly  and  silently 
behind  them. 

For  the  most  part,  frequenters  of  the  cabinets 


90       Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire 

particuliers  of  the  Beche  Noire  came  and  de- 
parted singly;  and  these  "single"  visitors,  it  might 
have  been  noticed,  traversed  as  far  as  possible  the 
darker  side  of  "the  Bottle,"  only  a  few  using  the 
more  convenient  alley  from  the  quay  side. 

On  the  night  of  September  1,  18 — ,  Room  No.  20 
of  the  Beche  Noire  was  occupied  by  a  lady. 

It  is  worthy  of  note  that  since  June  last  in  that 
year  the  lady  had  supped  alone  in  Room  20  on  the 
first  of  each  month.  But  only  old  Louis,  the 
attendant  to  whom  the  room  was  allotted,  knew 
the  regularity  of  the  lady's  visits. 

Now,  old  Louis  had  assimilated  quite  his  share 
of  the  discretion  essential  to  the  staff  of  the  Beche 
Noire,  and,  though  he  noted  the  regularity  of  the 
lady's  visits  on  the  first  of  each  month,  he  made  no 
comment. 

As  for  M.  Josephs,  an  apartment  occupied 
meant  a  sum  of  ten  francs,  whether  the  apartment 
were  rented  by  the  Sultan  of  Zanzibar  or  a  Pari- 
sian apache;  the  fictitious  names  in  the  regis- 
ter (kept  with  considerable  ingenuity  by  the 
porter  at  the  grille)  were  quite  wasted  upon  the 
proprietor,  for  he  entirely  disregarded  them  while 
at  his  morning  task  of  running  his  fat  and  never 
over-clean  fingers  up  the  money  columns. 

For  the  rest,  the  attendants  and  the  kitchen 


Room  20,  at  the  B6che  Noire       91 

staff  on  the  top  floor,  it  was:  "Bock  for  No.  8; 
No.  1 1 ,  supper  for  two,  with  wine ;  coffee,  cigarettes 
and  cognac  for  No.  20." 

On  the  evening  in  September  before  mentioned, 
the  lady  occupying  Room  No.  20  had  reached  the 
coffee  and  cognac  stage,  and  Louis,  with  the  deft- 
ness of  long  practice,  was  applying  a  lighted 
match  to  his  guest's  cigarette. 

He  did  it  with  extreme  care,  for  he  had  known 
occasions  when  the  effect  of  a  well- served  meal  had 
been  entirely  spoilt  by  the  flame  of  a  match  ill- 
applied.  Good  "waiting"  is  a  mass  of  trifles,  never 
at  an  end  until  the  poarboire  is  safely  in  the  trouser 
pocket. 

"What  Madame  needs  is  a  little  society,"  Louis 
ventured,  with  the  easy,  yet  deferential,  famil- 
iarity of  manner  that  only  his  kind  know  how  and 
when  to  assume. 

For  a  few  seconds  the  lady  smoked  her  cigarette 
in  silence.  She  was  leaning  with  one  elbow  on  the 
table,  her  eyes  half -closed,  engrossed  in  her  own 
thoughts. 

"Eh?  Society!"  she  murmured  suddenly.  "No, 
Louis.  I  prefer  to  be  alone."  It  had  the  semblance 
of  finality. 

"Oh!  Madame!" 

The  lady  glanced  up  and  found  herself  smiling 


92       Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire 

involuntarily  at  the  look  of  reproach  on  the  old 
man's  face.  "Society  never  comes  up  to  one's 
expectations,"  she  explained. 

"Ah!  that  is  so, "  he  hastened  to  agree  with  her. 
"But,  then,  life  itself  is  one  vast  disappointment, 
Madame.  That,  if  you  like,  never  comes  up  to 
one's  expectations.  Will  Madame  require  any- 
thing else?"  he  added. 

"No,  Louis,  thank  you.  But  do  not  go.  Stay 
and  talk.  I  am  lonely,  and  I  think  you  amused 
me  the  last  time  I  was  here." 

"Madame  condescends."  Louis  bowed;  then 
stood  at  attention,  waiting  for  her  to  continue. 

He  had  a  curious,  parrot-like  habit,  when 
particularly  pleased  with  himself,  of  blinking  his 
eyes,  a  trick  which  gave  his  face  an  unforgettable 
peculiarity. 

He  was  very  pleased  now,  for  Louis  liked 
nothing  better  than  to  be  given  the  opportunity 
of  airing  his  views  on  topics  of  a  somewhat  ab- 
struse nature;  and  on  previous  occasions  he 
had  found  in  Madame  an  unusually  patient 
listener. 

"What  do  you  expect  from  life,  Louis?"  the 
lady  asked,  smiling.  She  was  aware  of  the  old 
man's  weakness,  and  was  quite  willing  to  humour 
him.     Indeed,  she  welcomed  his  garrulity,  as  she 


Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire       93 

would  have  welcomed  anything  that  might  break 
the  train  of  her  own  thoughts. 

"I!"  Louis  retorted  glibly.  "I  expect  nothing, 
Madame,  except  to  lose  it.  A  sad  and  mad  busi- 
ness, this  life  of  ours;  a  burdensome  inheritance 
we  cannot  refuse;  insolvent  from  the  very  start. 
All  of  us  hopelessly  in  debt  to  the  devil,  and  there's 
few  can  pay  the  interest,  let  alone  the  principal. 
I,  for  one,  cannot." 

He  nodded  his  head  like  a  toy  Chinese  man- 
darin, and  added,  "I  was  born  unlucky,  Madame. 
I  can  truthfully  say  I  never  had  one  whole  happy 
day  in  the  course  of  my  existence." 

"Unlucky!"  the  lady  exclaimed.  "Do  you, 
then,  believe  in  luck?" 

"All  men  of  sound  judgment  believe  in  luck, 
Madame.  Even  fools,  who  attribute  their  achieve- 
ments to  their  own  superior  intellects,  will  explain 
that  their  failures  are  caused  by  ill-luck.  I  knew 
a  fool,  twenty  years  ago  now  it  is — but  I  see  I  tire 
Madame,"  he  broke  off,  aggrieved. 

The  lady  sat  in  a  reverie.  She  also  had  vivid 
recollections  of  twenty  years  ago,  of  a  man  who 
believed  in  luck  as  in  a  deity,  yet  a  man  of  intel- 
lect, courage,  and  action.  And  what  had  luck 
brought  to  him — and  to  her? — Louis's  words 
had  plunged  her  back  into  a  vortex  of  gloomy 


94       Room  20,  at  the  B6che  Noire 

reflections  from  which  she  had  hoped  to  escape, 
for  a  while,  at  any  rate. 

Her  face  grew  serious  and  hard,  the  face  of  a 
woman  who  had  endured  long  years  of  unsatisfied 
heart-cravings,  who  is  irreconcilable,  fighting 
against  fate,  hoping  against  hope,  until  the  last 
thread  of  even  that  flimsy  solace  seems  on  the 
point  of  snapping. 

To  Louis,  eyeing  her  with  his  usual  blank  stare, 
she  appeared  a  middle-aged  lady — certainly  a 
lady — once  possessing  " attractions,"  but  now 
seemingly  bored  by  life,  as  he  himself  was. 

Louis,  however,  found  some  grains  of  pleasure 
in  his  boredom,  for  he  possessed  a  sardonic  kind 
of  humour  which  to  the  malignant  is  always  a 
source  of  acute  satisfaction. 

14  Perhaps  Madame  may  find  pleasure  in  watch- 
ing the  dancers,"  the  old  waiter  suggested  pre- 
sently. On  each  former  occasion,  shortly  before 
eleven  o'clock,  a  visit  had  been  paid  to  the  gallery 
over  one  end  of  the  dancing-saloon.  Then,  at 
five  minutes  past  eleven,  came  a  generous  gratuity, 
followed  by  the  departure  of  this  solitary  patron 
from  the  Beche  Noire.  To-night  augured  no 
exception  to  the  rule. 

The  lady  rose  from  the  table,  and  after  arrang- 
ing a  white  lace  scarf  so  as  partially  to  conceal 


Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire       95 

her  features,  she  accepted  Louis's  guidance  along 
a  warren  of  gloomy  passages,  until  she  and  her 
escort  arrived  on  the  gallery. 

It  was  unoccupied,  and  she  leaned  against  the 
railings  at  the  one  corner,  letting  her  gaze  roam 
over  the  garish  scene  beneath  her. 

A  dozen  or  more  "couples"  were  dancing  with 
abandon  to  the  strains  of  the  "Blue  Danube," 
played  with  unconventional  speed  by  three  blue- 
jowled,  jaded-looking  Hungarian  musicians,  who 
lolled  back  in  their  chairs  on  the  dais  near  a 
scarlet-curtained  doorway. 

At  the  sides  of  the  saloon  stood  little  round, 
marble-topped  tables,  at  which  men  and  women 
were  smoking  and  drinking  and  making  merry 
in  their  fashion  without  restraint.  The  acrid 
tobacco  smoke  and  minute  particles  of  dust 
floating  upwards  rendered  breathing  uncom- 
fortable. 

With  a  sigh,  the  lady  on  the  gallery  looked  at  her 
watch:  five  minutes  past  eleven.  She  turned  to 
go,  but  at  that  instant  her  attention  was  arrested 
by  two  men  in  evening  dress  entering  the  saloon 
from  the  restaurant  below.  One  of  them  glanced 
up  at  her  casually,  and  then  lowered  his  eyes. 
She  became  rigid,  and  stared  so  fixedly  in  the  man's 
direction  that  Louis's  curiosity  was  at  once  aroused. 


96       Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire 

Full  of  a  well-simulated  zeal  on  her  behalf,  he 
shuffled  forward. 

"M.  Josephs,  our  proprietor, "  he  explained. 
"The  other,  the  grey-bearded  gentleman  with  the 
cloak  and  monocle,  I  do  not  know.  He  has  the 
air  of  distinction.  We  do  not  often  get  his  kind 
down  there,  Madame.  An  English  gentleman, 
perhaps — curious  to  '  see. ' 

"They  will  drink  together  'for  the  good  of  the 
house,'  and  then —  No!"  he  ejaculated,  "they  are 
looking  for  some  one.  Ah,  yes.  It  is  the  man 
in  the  blue  suit  sitting  alone  by  the  pillar.  See! 
M.  Josephs  bows  and  leaves  them  together." 
He  went  on  chatting,  apparently  oblivious  of 
the  fact  that  his  companion  was  not  listening. 
Madame  had  grown  deathly  pale,  and  was 
gripping  the  railings  tightly.  But  presently 
with  an  effort  she  managed  to  regain  her  self- 
control. 

"Louis!" 

"Yes,  Madame." 

"The  gentleman  who  has  just  entered — "  she 
broke  off  suddenly. 

"Ah!"  Louis  murmured,  helping  her  out.  "I 
understand.  Madame  is  already  acquainted  with 
Monsieur."  The  lady  made  no  reply;  she  ap- 
peared hardly  to  hear  him. 


Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire       97 

"Shall  I  take  a  message,  Madame?"  persisted 
Louis. 

"Oh,  I  am  an  old  woman!"  she  muttered  to 
herself  almost  inaudibly. 

"Madame!  Fie!  Madame  is  only  as  old  as  she 
looks,"  said  Louis  reproachfully.  "Come,  then! 
Leave  the  affair  to  me.  I  will  myself  bring  the 
gentleman  to  Madame.     I  will  say " 

The  lady  interrupted  him  abruptly.  "You  will 
say  just  this, "  she  insisted.  " '  If  you  are  a  believer 
in  luck,  come  to  Number  Twenty.'  Do  you 
understand?" 

"As  Madame  wishes."  With  a  slight  lift  of  his 
thin  shoulders,  Louis  led  the  way  back  to  Room  20. 

When  the  old  waiter  had  departed  on  his  errand, 
the  lady  hastened  to  the  table  and  poured  out  a 
glass  of  liqueur  with  trembling  hands.  The  spirit 
revived  her  somewhat;  but  she  could  not  subdue 
her  restlessness,  and  began  moving  about  the 
room  with  nervous,  uncertain  steps. 

Approaching  one  of  the  mirrors,  of  which  there 
were  many  on  the  gaudily  painted  walls,  she 
regarded  the  reflection  of  her  face;  but  almost 
immediately  she  turned  wearily  away  and  reseated 
herself.  As  she  hid  her  face  in  her  arms  on  the 
table,  her  elbow  swept  the  coffee  cup  and  saucer 
to  the  floor. 


98       Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire 

A  knock  sounded  on  the  door;  a  man  entered. 
She  did  not  stir. 

The  newcomer  gave  a  quick,  comprehensive 
glance  round  the  room,  then  shut  the  door  and 
came  slowly  towards  the  table. 

"Your  servant,  Madame" — he  began.  She 
forced  herself  to  look  up.  The  monocle  fell  from 
his  eye —  "Ah! — it  is  you,  Ninette?" 

"Yes,  Andre, "  she  murmured,  "it  is  I,  Ninette." 
She  rose  unsteadily,  and  they  stood  gazing  at  one 
another  across  the  table. 

"You  knew  me?"  he  asked,  with  a  touch  of 
vexation,  looking  at  himself  in  one  of  the  mirrors, 
and  plucking  at  his  neat  grey  beard.  Her  face 
fell. 

"At  once,"  she  panted,  her  breath  coming  in 
short,  quick  gasps.  "But,  Andre!  What  a 
greeting! — How  cold! — My  lover!"  — 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  beseechingly;  then, 
as  he  made  no  move,  her  arms  drooped  to  her 
sides,  and  she  sank,  almost  swooning,  into  her 
chair  again.  Her  companion  placed  his  cloak  and 
hat  on  a  chair  by  the  window,  and  came  close  to 
her.     His  movements  were  agile  and  noiseless. 

Dropping  on  one  knee,  he  lifted  her  hand  to  his 
lips.  His  whole  attitude  betokened  courtesy  and 
respect,  whether  simulated  or  sincere  it  would  be 


Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire       99 

difficult  to  say;  but  his  touch  sent  no  exultant 
thrill  to  her  heart.  Impulsive1  y  she  took  his  head 
between  her  hands,  and  searched  anxiously  in  his 
eyes.  They  were  cold,  with  not  even  a  trace  of 
sympathy  in  them. 

"Only  my  hand? — I  have  waited — Andre!  do 
you  forget?— Oh!  I  am  old—old— old."  She 
moaned.  "I  wish  I  were  dead."  She  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands,  and  began  to  sob 
softly. 

He  rose  and  placed  a  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
"Ninette,"  he  said,  not  unkindly,  "it  was  folly 
to  expect  the  man  you  once  knew  and  loved.  He 
died  when  we  were  parted — and  in  his  place " 

"Stop! — for  pity's  sake.  We  are  together 
again,"  she  murmured  brokenly;  then,  clutching 
his  hand,  she  drew  it  under  her  cheek.  "I  must 
win  you  back  to  life — and  love." 

"Impossible!"  he  jerked  out,  with  an  abrupt 
change  of  tone.  "Let  go  my  hand.  Don't  be 
foolish." 

"Foolish!"  She  flung  his  hand  from  her,  and 
sprang  to  her  feet.  "And  this  is  what  I  have 
waited  for  all  these  years ! "  she  said,  in  low  passion- 
ate tones.  "Oh!  you  cannot  be  human,  you — " 
she  broke  off,  unable  to  articulate 

"Human!"   he   muttered   gloomily.     "Yes,   in 


ioo     Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire 

shape  only.  You  have  had  your  freedom.  You 
cannot  conceive  the  torture  of  captivity — the  brain- 
surges  of  insensate  fury  that  sweep  away  all  that 
is  kindly  in  a  man,  and  flood  his  whole  being  with 
hate — deadly,  diabolical  hate.  I  tell  you  I  live 
for  one  thing  only —  Bah!  Why  go  on?" 
he  broke  out,  in  self -contempt  for  his  outburst. 
"Let  us  face  facts.  I  have  utterly  lost  the  ca- 
pacity of  love  for  any  one." 

"Did  you  come  here  only  to  tell  me  that?"  she 
demanded,  with  flashing  eyes  that  were  as  hard 
as  his  own.  "Or  do  you  wish  to  offer  me  thanks 
for  helping  you  to  escape? 

"Thanks! — Oh,  my  God! — If  you  dare  utter  a 
word,  I  will  run  into  the  streets  and  cry  out 
your  presence  in  Paris,  so  that  the  first  gendarme 
shall  take  you.     You  shall  go  back  to —     Oh!" 

She  stopped,  appalled  by  the  terrible  expression 
of  his  face.  He  gripped  her  wrists  and  forced  her 
back  into  her  chair.  His  eyes  seemed  to  hurt  her; 
she  shrank  from  him,  quivering. 

"Silence!"  he  commanded.  "Do  you  want 
every  fool  in  the  place  to  hear  you?  No,  I  shall 
not  hurt  you,  I  never  struck  a  woman.  Control 
yourself,  and  listen  to  me. 

"I  came  here  for  two  reasons.  One  does  not 
concern  you.     The  other  was  because  I  knew  you 


Room  20,  at  the  BecKe  Noire     161 

would  be  here,  and  I  did  intend  to  offer  you  my 
thanks  for  all  you  have  done  for  me.  I  am  in- 
capable of  offering  you  more;  I  will  not  offer  you 
less.     At  least,  it  is  no  insult. 

"  It  would  be,  if  I  were  to  pretend  a  passion  that 
no  longer  lives.  Do  you  think  it  is  nothing  to 
me,  when  I  remember  what  we  were  to  each 
other,  that  I  come  back  to  you,  cold,  knowing 
that  I  am  a  clod,  that  every  spark  of  affection 
for  my  woman  — yes,  my  woman — has  died  within 
me? 

"I  realise  all  you  have  done  for  me.  I  know 
I  owe  you  my  liberty.  I  know  you  have  been 
faithful  to  my  memory.  Bah!" — he  released  her 
wrists — "I  am  in  your  debt,  and  I  cannot  pay. 
Go  and  do  what  you  threatened.  Tell  all  the 
world  I  have  returned  to  Paris." 

A  wave  of  hot  colour  suffused  her  cheeks. 
"Andre!"  she  pleaded,  half-crying  with  indigna- 
tion and  humiliation.  "I  did  not  mean  it.  You 
know  I  could  not.  Oh,  cruel — cruel! — I  had 
planned — oh,  how  I  had  planned!" 

Suddenly  she  started  up  in  her  seat. 

"You  must  not  stay  in  Paris,"  she  cried.  "I 
should  die  if  you  were  taken  from  me  again.  Come 
away  with  me.  We  will  go  to  England. — Only 
let  me  be  near  you." 


102     Room  "20,  at  the  Beche  Noire 

"Hush!  Speak  lower.  No,"  he  went  on,  "I 
have  work  to  do." 

"Work!" 

"You  forget  I  have  a  profession,"  with  a  sneer- 
ing laugh.  "Yes,  a  profession,  for  it  is  as  honest 
as  most  professions  that  men  make  money  by. 
And  we  want  money." 

"Andre!"  she  interrupted  him,  "I  have  money 
enough  for  both.     Don't " 

"  You  misunderstand  me, "  he  broke  in.  "There 
are  others." 

1 '  Others ,  Andre !     Whom  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"My  comrades.  Do  you  not  remember  there 
were  three  of  us?" 

"They  have  escaped,  too?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  seated  himself 
opposite  to  her.  "One  is  down  in  the  dancing 
saloon,"  he  said  coolly.  "I  was  talking  to  him 
when  your  message  came.  I  expect  the  other  is 
not  far  away,  if  he  has  had  any  luck.  It  was 
arranged  we  should  meet  here  to-night.  The  last 
I  saw  of  both  of  them  was  on  board  the  schooner 
you  sent  us.  You  arranged  that  affair  magnifi- 
cently," he  added,  brightening  up. 

"Money,"  she  replied,  with  bitter  curtness. 
"But  I  had  no  intention  of  helping  those  two 
horrible  men.     Andre!"  she  pleaded,   "have  no 


Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire     103 

more  to  do  with  them.  They  will  be  your  ruin. 
Come  away  at  once,  I  beg  and  beseech  you." 
She  rose  eagerly,  with  arms  outstretched  towards 
him.     He  raised  his  hand. 

"I  am  tied  to  them  by  a  vow,"  he  said — 
"foolish,  if  you  like;  but  it  is  my  'luck,'  and  it 
holds  me.  My  one  virtuous  point!"  he  sneered. 
"  Besides,  they  are  necessary  to  me  for  the  matter 
I  have  on  hand.  When  that  is  done  we  scatter, 
each  for  himself." 

"But,  Andre!"  she  begged  piteously,  "have 
you  no  thought  for  me?" 

He  frowned.     "What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"Are  we  not  to  be  together?" 

"Impossible." 

"Andre!"  she  pleaded,  "think  of  all  I  have 
suffered.  Think  of  the  years  I  have  spent  planning 
and  planning  for  you ;  aching  for  the  sight  of  you. 
I  have  grown  old — ah!  so  old! — in  your  service, 
and  you  refuse  me  this  little  thing.  Let  me  be 
near  you,  so  that  at  least  I  can  see  you  every  day. 
I  will  be  so  cautious.  I  will  never  even  speak  to 
you  if  you  do  not  wish  it.  Ah,  you  do  not  know 
what  love  means  to  a  woman.  Andre,  you  cannot 
refuse.     Look  me  in  the  face — you  cannot." 

She  went  to  him  and  put  her  hands  upon  his 
shoulders.     She  felt  he  was  wavering. 


104     Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire 

"No!  It  would  be  folly, "  he  muttered.  "Rank 
folly;' 

She  turned  away  from  him,  sighing.  There 
was  a  silence  for  some  moments.  Suddenly  he 
looked  up  and  laughed. 

"After  all,  what  does  it  matter ?"  he  ex- 
claimed. "Yes.  Have  it  your  own  way.  I  can 
trust  you.  It  is  little  enough  I  can  do  to  repay 
you.  No,  do  not  thank  me!" — for  she  had 
turned  round  on  him  with  a  joyous  face.  "Go 
and  sit  down  and  let  me  think." 

He  rose,  and  began  pacing  the  room.  The 
woman  went  back  to  her  chair  and  waited  in 
silence  for  him  to  speak. 

"Where  do  you  live  now?"  he  asked  abruptly, 
coming  to  a  halt  near  her. 

"I  have  no  settled  home,"  she  replied.  "I 
sold  everything  when  I  went  out  to  Australia  to 
arrange  for  a  vessel  to  fetch  you  from — "  He 
held  up  a  warning  finger,  and  she  checked  herself, 
adding:  "Since  I  came  back  I  have  been  living 
in  London;  coming  to  Paris,  as  I  told  you  in  the 
code  I  should,  so  as  to  be  here  on  the  first  of  each 
month." 

"Yes,  your  books  reached  me,"  he  said. 
Then:  "You  know  many  people  in  Lon- 
don?    But,   of   course" — sneeringly — "I   forgot. 


Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire     105 

You  always  had  a  large  circle  of  swell 
friends." 

"Andre!"  she  expostulated.  "You  know  I 
would  give  them  all  up  for  you.  I  have  done  so 
already — "  He  raised  his  hand  again,  interrupt- 
ing her  sharply. 

"Have  you  ever  heard  of  any  one  called  ' Gautil' ? 
He  is  a  financier  by  repute;  he  has  a  big  mansion 
in  Brantworth  Square,  in  London,  and  a  place  in 
the  country,  in  Worcestershire,  a  village  called 
Seckley.  There  is  a  Mrs.  Gautil,  a  retiring  sort  of 
person,  and  a  young  daughter  of  about  seventeen 
or  eighteen." 

"No,"  she  replied,  "I  do  not  think  I  ever  even 
heard  the  name." 

"No?"  he  repeated  thoughtfully.  "Well,  it 
does  not  matter.  But,  if  you  insist  on  being  near 
me,  get  to  know  the  Gautils.  Take  a  cottage  at 
Seckley  village,  and  make  friends  with  the  Gautil 
womenfolk  if  you  like.  It  would  be  easy;  Mrs. 
Gautil  would  welcome  it.  They  spend  most  of 
their  time  in  the  country.  But,  remember ! "  he  said 
sternly,  "when  we  meet  again,  we  are  strangers." 

"I  will  remember,"  she  replied  wearily. 

"Now,  go!"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  dully.  "Andre!"  she  pro- 
tested, almost  inaudibly. 


106     Room  20,  at  the  B6che  Noire 

"I  have  other  matters  to  attend  to." 

"But,  Andre?     Am  I  not  to  have  any  address?" 

"I  have  no  address,"  he  took  her  up  quickly. 
"You  must  never  write.  I  am  going  against  my 
better  judgment  as  it  is.  Go ;  before  I  change  my 
mind." 

He  stood  waiting  for  her  to  move,  this  cold, 
inscrutable  man,  who  still  wielded  such  power  over 
her.  She  had  laughed  at  it  years  ago;  but  she 
had  been  proud  to  obey  him,  to  be  dismissed  at  his 
pleasure,  when  he  had  other  things  to  do.  Was 
she  proud  now? — But  she  must  obey  him. 

She  felt  suddenly  and  with  a  curious  alarm 
that  she  came  near  to  hating  him.  The  fine 
balance  wavered.  It  had  wavered  several  times, 
had  she  known  it,  during  the  last  miserable  ten 
minutes. 

It  was  love  or  hate.  There  could  be  no  betwixt 
and  between,  no  equipoise  of  the  scales.  And 
some  inexplicable  agency — who  knows  what  it 
is? — pressed  on  the  balance,  and  Ninette's  infatua- 
tion for  the  man  weighed  down  hate.  Would  it 
be  so  always? 

With  a  deep  sigh  she  rose  slowly  and  went 
towards  her  outdoor  wraps  hanging  on  some  pegs 
on  the  wall  behind  her  chair.  The  man  hastened 
to  assist  her,  and  it  gave  her  a  faint,  wistful  thrill 


Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire     107 

of  pleasure  that  he  was  still  outwardly  something 
of  the  gallant  she  remembered  so  well. 

The  shell  was  the  same.  She  wondered,  too, 
that  this  should  be  so;  and  afterwards,  ponder- 
ing over  this  terribly  distressing  meeting,  she  tried 
to  persuade  herself  that  there  was  still  a  flicker 
of  hope. 

"  Keep  me  away  from  those  two  dreadful  men,  " 
she  begged,  as  he  put  the  lace  scarf  neatly  round 
her  throat. 

"My  comrades ?"  he  replied.  "You  never 
actually  saw  them,  did  you?"     She  shuddered. 

"I  was  at  the — the  trial,"  she  said  slowly.  "I 
could  not  keep  away." 

"Rest  assured  you  will  never  meet  them  again." 
He  laughed  unpleasantly.  "They  were  not  called 
1  Invisibles '  for  nothing.  Wait ! "  he  said  suddenly. 
"You  knew  me  at  once  when  I  came  in.  Others 
may  do  the  same.  About  this  place?  I  see  it  has 
changed  hands;  Bricquet  dead;  otherwise  it  seems 
much  the  same  as  in  my  time.  Is  it  safe?  Is 
there  any  one  here  who  might  remember  me?" 

"It  was  the  only  place  I  could  suggest,"  she 
replied.  "I  made  very  cautious  inquiries,  and 
found  it  was  conducted  in  the  same  way  as  it 
used  to  be.  And  the  Beche  Noire  has  memories, " 
she  added  sadly. 


108     Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said  impatiently,  "I  do  not 
forget.  But  who  is  the  antique  fellow  who 
brought  me  your  message  just  now?" 

"Old  Louis!"  she  whispered  in  alarm.  "I  had 
not  given  him  a  thought.  Andre!  He  tells  me 
he  has  been  here  all  his  life." 

He  strode  to  the  bell  and  rang  it.  "Does  Louis 
know  who  you  are?"  he  asked,  knitting  his  brows. 

"  No, "  she  answered,  with  a  curious  little  shiver. 
"  I  fancy  he  takes  me  at  my  face  value,  a  somewhat 
eccentric  woman  of  the  class  he  often  sees  here." 

He  frowned  still  more  heavily.  "I  never  trust 
a  man  with  a  face  like  a  blank  piece  of  parchment," 
he  muttered. 

At  that  moment  Louis  made  his  reappearance, 
and,  perceiving  signs  of  departure,  vaguely 
presented  Madame' s  bill. 

"Eh!"  exclaimed  her  companion,  quickly  fixing 
his  monocle  in  his  eye.  "That  is  my  affair."  He 
paid  the  bill,  and,  telling  the  old  man  to  wait, 
went  to  the  door  and  held  it  open.  Ninette  under- 
stood that  it  was  the  signal  for  her  to  go. 

"You  will  not  forget,"  he  urged,  as  she  came 
towards  him.  "I  shall  expect  you  on  board  my 
yacht  not  later  than  two  o'clock  the  day  after 
to-morrow." 

Ninette  hesitated,  looking  at  him  in  surprise. 


Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire     109 

His  face  had  become  animated  and  his  voice  eager 
and  full  of  gaiety.  Surely  this  was  the  Andre  she 
had  expected,  the  lover  she  had  so  ardently 
awaited!  But  a  quick,  penetrating  glance  told 
her  that  he  was  only  acting  a  part  for  the  mystifica- 
tion of  a  senile  waiter.  She  made  some  inaudible 
reply;  then,  veiling  her  features  more  completely, 
she  swept  quickly  from  the  room. 

Andre  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  turned  to 
Louis,  who  was  picking  up  the  pieces  of  broken 
china  from  the  floor. 

"You  are  Louis,  are  you  not?"  he  inquired, 
taking  a  seat  at  the  table  and  leaning  back  after 
the  manner  of  one  who  has  made  a  good  bargain 
and  is  pleased  with  himself  and  inclined  to  be 
affable. 

"Yes,  M'sieur, "  replied  Louis,  straightening 
his  back,  as  though  it  behoved  him  to  treat  that 
part  of  his  body  with  the  greatest  care  and 
respect. 

"I  suppose  you  know  how  to  hold  your  tongue? " 

The  old  man  returned  the  stranger's  bold 
scrutiny  without  a  flicker  of  his  eyelids.  "I 
learned  discretion  under  Bricquet,"  he  grumbled. 

"Bricquet!     Who  the  deuce  is  Bricquet?,, 

"The  former  proprietor;  but,  of  course,  Mon- 
sieur would  not  understand.     The  Beche  Noire, 


i  io     Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire 

M'sieur,  has  a  reputation;  and  I  have  been  here 
for  nearly  thirty-five  years." 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  the  other  indifferently, 
lighting  a  cigarette.  "Well,  you  must  not  be 
offended  because  I  wish  to  be  cautious.  The  fact 
is,  I  am  well  known" — he  laughed  lightly — "and 
the  last  thing  I  want  is  publicity.  Madame  and 
I  are  old  friends,  and  I  am  taking  her  a  short 
cruise  in  my  yacht.  You  follow  me?  Those 
newspaper  fellows,  you  know,  they  are  the  deuce 
and  all  to  elude,  eh?"     He  held  out  a  gold  piece. 

"Have  no  fear,  M'sieur,"  said  Louis  with  a 
bow,  as  he  pocketed  the  coin. 

"Good,"  observed  the  donor  briskly.  "Now 
for  another  matter.  Did  you  notice  the  man  I 
was  talking  to  in  the  dancing-saloon?" 

"Yes,  M'sieur." 

"The  captain  of  my  yacht.  Go  and  fetch  him 
up  here,  will  you?  I  must  give  him  some  orders, 
and  I  do  not  want  to  be  seen  down  there  again. 
I  will  pay  for  the  extra  use  of  this  room  if  neces- 
sary." 

"I  think  M.  Josephs  would  desire  it,  M'sieur," 
Louis  said.  His  attitude  and  a  certain  inflection 
in  his  voice  suggested  a  regrettable  greed  on  the 
part  of  his  employer;  though,  in  his  mind,  Louis  at 
once  determined  that  this  second  "let"  of  Room 


Room  20,  at  the  B£che  Noire     in 

20  was  entirely  his  own  legitimate  perquisite. 
Ten  francs!  They  would  clink  nicely  with  the 
gold  piece  already  in  his  pocket.  As  he  left  the 
room  Louis's  eyes  blinked  even  more  parrot-like 
than  usual. 

Left  alone,  the  stranger  ran  lightly  to  the 
window,  and,  having  pulled  aside  the  heavy  cur- 
tains, looked  down  into  the  street  below.  On  the 
opposite  side  an  undersized  man  was  moving 
restlessly  to  and  fro,  always  keeping  well  away 
from  the  glare  cast  by  the  cafe  lights. 

After  frowning  at  the  slouching  figure  for 
several  moments,  the  watcher  impatiently  replaced 
the  curtains,  withdrew  from  the  window,  and  gave 
himself  up  to  a  close  scrutiny  of  his  own  reflection 
in  one  of  the  mirrors.  He  seemed  to  be  not  a 
little  uneasy.  Presently,  hearing  the  door  opened, 
he  swung  round  to  greet  a  tall  man  in  a  blue  suit 
of  a  nautical  cut,  who  was  at  that  moment  entering. 

"Ha!  Captain  Salter,"  he  exclaimed  brusquely 
in  English.  "Sit  down — sit  down" — indicating 
a  chair — "I  want  a  few  words  with  you." 

The  newcomer  saluted  gravely.  "Thank  you, 
my  lord, "  he  said,  also  in  English,  seating  himself. 
With  his  sunburnt  and  lined  face,  he  might  have 
passed  muster  for  the  sailor  in  any  company  but 
that  of  sailors  themselves,  who,  after  their  kind, 


ii2     Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire 

would  have  discovered  in  him  a  sham,  if  only  by 
the  unsailor-like  restlessness  of  his  hands  and  eyes. 

Louis,  after  ushering  in  this  individual,  had 
effaced  himself. 

"Go  back  to  the  yacht  at  once,"  "my  lord" 
went  on,  in  loud  tones.  "  Be  ready  to  sail  by  two 
o'clock  the  day  after  to-morrow.  And  here! 
before  you  go,  just  look  through  this  list  and  tell 
me  if  there  is  anything  to  add  to  it." 

As  he  spoke  he  produced  irom  his  pocket  a 
folded  piece  of  paper,  and,  sitting  by  the  side  of 
"Captain  Salter,"  he  opened  it  out  upon  the 
table  in  front  of  them.  The  two  men  appeared  to 
examine  the  paper  with  care. 

"Go  on  talking  loud,"  "my  lord"  whispered. 
"I  don't  trust  the  old  waiter.  It's  possible  he 
understands  English,  and  may  be  listening  out- 
side." 

"Yes ;  I  recognised  him — Louis, "  the  "  Captain  " 
murmured ;  then,  taking  his  cue  quickly,  he  began 
out  loud  to  comment  on  a  totally  imaginary  list, 
ticking  off  each  item,  as  it  were,  with  a  forefinger. 

"Jean  is  below  in  the  street,"  the  other  went  on 
in  a  barely  audible  voice.  "Take  him  to  19, 
Caveen  Street,  West  India  Dockroad,  London. 
Ask  for  Captain  Petersen  when  you  get  there" — 
he   repeated   the   address   and   the   name   twice. 


Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire     113 

"This  place  is  not  safe.  We  must  all  be  out  of 
Paris  to-night." 

"Money,"  muttered  his  confederate  tersely. 

The  deficiency  was  at  once  made  good,  the 
transaction  covered  by  a  clearly  spoken  explana- 
tion, natural  enough  as  between  a  yacht  owner 
and  his  captain;  then  Louis  was  summoned  and 
told  to  escort  "Captain  Salter"  down  to  the  cafe 
again  and  return  with  the  bill. 

When  the  old  waiter  once  more  entered  the 
room  No.  20  was  unoccupied.  The  stranger, 
"my  lord" — or  whoever  he  might  be — had  gone. 

Louis  scowled;  then  an  idea  striking  him,  he 
hurried  to  the  window.  He  was  just  in  time  to 
vsee  "Captain  Salter's"  tall  form  cross  the  street 
and  merge  into  the  shadows  on  the  opposite  side. 
A  moment  or  two  later  Louis  saw  him  and  another, 
a  much  smaller  man,  walk  swiftly  down  "the 
Bottle"  towards  the  alley  under  Gronnet's  ware- 
house. 

There  was  no  sign  of  "my  lord";  but,  on  clear- 
ing the  table,  Louis  discovered  five  francs,  and 
scowled  again  as  he  pocketed  the  half  of  what  he 
had  expected  as  his  due.  He  felt  he  had  been 
defrauded. 

In  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  Louis  dragged 
himself  up  the  stairs  to  the  garret  where  he  slept. 


ii4     Room  20,  at  the  B£che  Noire 

Tired  in  body  as  the  old  man  was,  his  brain  worked 
with  unceasing  activity. 

Before  undressing  himself  the  old  waiter  ex- 
tracted a  bundle  of  newspaper  cuttings  from  an 
ancient  and  battered  box,  and  placing  them  upon 
the  bed,  searched  through  them  carefully.  For 
the  most  part  they  were  police  records,  plentifully 
illustrated  with  portraits  of  criminals,  and  im- 
aginary, suggestive  pictures  of  the  deeds  of  evil- 
doers. 

Louis  had  his  own  reasons  for  the  study  of  such 
"literature,"  reasons  which  not  seldom  were 
connected  with  pecuniary  profit  to  himself.  In 
England  we  have  our  Louis.  We  call  him  a 
"police-nark";  that  is,  if  we  are  cognisant  of  such 
"low  class"  phraseology. 

But  to  return  to  Louis's  garret.  Let  us  play  the 
spy  and  listen  to  the  old  man  muttering  as  he 
bends  over  his  pile  of  age-yellowed  and  discoloured 
newspaper  cuttings  strewn  about  the  patchwork 
coverlet  of  his  bed,  with  the  candle  almost  singe- 
ing what  scanty  grizzled  hairs  Time  has  left  to 
him. 

"English?"  he  asks  himself.  " Milor?— per- 
haps. But  the  other! — Captain  of  Milor's 
yacht — Bah!  Tell  that  to  the  pigs — I  know 
his   face — I   know  it,    I   tell  you.     Fool!   think! 


Room  20,  at  the  Beche  Noire     115 

think! — And  there  was  another  who  waited 
outside  in  'the  Bottle' — Idiot!  Imbecile!  You 
ought  to  be  in  your  coffin — old  fool! — And 
Madame — who  is  only  as  old  as  she  looks — ha,  ha! 
—Sacri!" 

Suddenly  his  attention  becomes  fixed.  He  is 
glaring  at  the  badly  executed  portraits  of  four 
men  in  a  paper  printed  just  twenty  years  ago. 
Beneath  the  "portraits,"  in  faded  type  is  an 
explanation  which,  briefly  put,  reads  as  follows: — 

The  Invisibles. — (1)  Andre  Gaspard,  (2)  Kit 
Polliter,  (3)  Jean  (the  "Rat"),  deported  for  life  to 
New  Caledonia;  (4)  Hippolyte  Courtois,  who 
joined  the  gang  in  order  to  betray  them  and  to 
claim  the  reward  offered  for  information  leading  to 
their  capture. 

"Deuce  take  Milor's  beard!"  ejaculates  old 
Louis  piously. 

We  leave  the  old  waiter  scowling  at  the  portrait 
of  Andre  Gaspard  and  covering  the  lower  half  of 
the  face  with  trembling  fingers. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AT  NO.  19,  CAVEEN  STREET 

\  AGGING  behind  the  main  stream  of  pas- 
*-^  sengers,  who  had  alighted  from  the  train 
already  some  distance  on  its  way  to  Poplar  and 
the  terminus  at  Black  well,  two  men  slowly  de- 
scended the  stairs  from  the  West  India  Dock 
Station  to  the  street,  and  dawdled  towards  the 
big  dock  gates. 

One  of  the  men,  had  he  held  himself  erect, 
stood  above  the  average  height;  the  other  was  a 
puny  but  aggressive-looking  fellow.  Both  had 
the  appearance  of  forecastle  hands  of  the  rougher 
sort  in  shore-going  rig. 

Opposite  the  Jamaica,  they  halted,  as  though 
discussing  the  advisability  of  partaking  of  that 
last  highly  desirable  drink  before  entering  upon  a 
period  of  enforced  abstinence  upon  the  high  seas. 

From  the  shelter  at  the  dock  gates,  a  burly 
policeman  watched  them  with  indifference — indif- 
ference, first,  because  there  was  no  likelihood  of 

116 


At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street         117 

his  being  invited  to  join  in  a  farewell  toast;  and, 
second,  because  he  had  seen  the  little  comedy 
enacted  before,  a  thousand  times. 

He  merely  conjectured,  from  habit,  what 
vessel  the  twain  were  joining,  and  if,  with  them, 
it  would  be  a  case  of  a  "pier-head  jump"  at  the 
last  possible  moment. 

The  consumption  of  "last  drinks,"  the  police- 
man knew,  not  seldom  entails  an  inordinate 
length  of  time.  Apparently,  the  two  men  oppo- 
site the  Jamaica  decided  to  bestow  their  patronage 
elsewhere. 

After  some  hesitation  they  turned,  hurried  back 
up  the  West  India  Dock-road,  and  disappeared 
round  a  corner  into  Caveen  Street.  Whereupon, 
in  all  probability  the  policeman  forgot  all  about 
them,  and  so  missed  the  chance  of  his  lifetime,  for 
the  taller  of  the  two  seafaring-looking  men  was 
Kit  Polliter,  alias  (two  days  ago)  "Captain 
Salter, "  alias  (in  past  years)  a  host  of  other  names 
equally  fictitious;  the  puny  little  fellow  was  Jean, 
who,  so  far  as  this  story  is  concerned,  had  neither 
surname  nor  alias,  unless  "the  Rat"  may  be 
allowed  to  serve  for  both. 

At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street,  Polliter  and  Jean 
stopped ;  and  having,  not  without  difficulty,  made 
sure  of  the  number  on  the  dirt-begrimed  fanlight 


n8         At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street 

over  the  door,  Polliter  rapped  a  cautious  tattoo 
with  the  knocker. 

Presently  the  door  opened  with  a  crack,  and 
an  elderly  woman  with  a  hard,  uncompromising 
visage,  peered  out.  Her  immediate  attempt  to 
bang  the  door  to  again  was  anticipated  by  a  deftly 
inserted  boot. 

"Wot  'jer  want?"  she  then  demanded  sullenly. 

"Captain  Petersen,"  Polliter  replied,  with  an 
ingratiating  smile. 

Evidently  mollified  by  the  name  of  Petersen, 
but  with  a  bad  grace,  the  woman  admitted  them 
without  further  demur. 

"He's  upstairs,"  she  grumbled;  "top  landin'. 
There's  only  two  rooms,  and  his  is  the  fust  you 
comes  to.  Find  yer  way  yerselves.  I've  enough 
trapesin'  up  them  stairs  as  it  is.  And  wipe  yer 
feet,"  she  added  truculently,  eyeing  their  boots 
with  disfavour. 

She  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  staircase  watch- 
ing their  progress  upwards;  then,  as  they  dis- 
appeared upon  the  first  landing,  she  gave  a  loud 
sniff  and  went  slip-slopping  along  the  narrow 
passage  to  those  mysterious  regions  termed 
generally  "the  back." 

Polliter  and  Jean  found  Captain  Petersen's 
room  without  difficulty,  and  the  former  knocked 


At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street        119 

with  a  curious,  staccato  effect  upon  the  door. 
Instantly  a  deep  voice  from  within  bade  them 
"Come  in." 

The  apartment  they  entered — like  the  landlady 
— was  uncompromising.  One  wondered  if  in  all 
the  world  there  could  be  a  single  person  who 
would  be  willing  to  pay  for  the  privilege  of  occupy- 
ing such  a  garret  one  shilling  a  day — a  crown, 
perhaps,  if  taken  by  the  week. 

The  appointments  consisted  of  a  bed,  with  a 
broken  back  and  sagging,  almost  to  the  floor,  in 
one  corner;  a  small  " lino" -covered  table,  propped 
of  necessity  against  the  wall;  a  rickety  washstand, 
bearing  chipped  enamelled-tin  utensils;  and  one 
chair,  whose  age  and  limitations  were  obvious. 

"Captain  Petersen,"  a  stoutish,  black -bearded 
individual,  reclined,  fully  dressed,  upon  the  bed. 
From  his  lips  protruded  a  long,  venomous-looking 
cheroot  extracted  from  a  "250"  box  which  rested 
within  easy  reach  upon  the  washstand.  One 
hand  hung  down  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  gripping  a 
newspaper  with  the  thumb,  the  muscles  of  which 
were  extraordinarily  developed. 

Through  a  haze  of  cigar  smoke  made  by  several 
recent  vigorous  puffs,  Captain  Petersen  peered 
searchingly  at  his  visitors. 

For  a  moment  Polliter  returned  the  gaze  with 


120         At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street 

equal  intentness;  then  he  nodded  reassuringly. 
But  Jean  found  recognition  more  difficult. 

"Guv'nor?"  he  began  hesitatingly. 

Petersen  cut  him  short.  "  My  name  is  '  Captain 
Petersen,'"  he  rapped  out.  "And  once  and  for 
all,  Jean,"  he  added,  frowning  at  the  little  man, 
"forget  that  mode  of  speech.  The  clock  has  been 
put  back  twenty  years.  If  you  cannot  bear  that 
in  mind — "  He  pointed  significantly  towards  the 
door. 

Jean  grinned.  "I  see  it's  you,  right  enough, 
now,"  he  rejoined;  "but  I  wanted  to  make  sure. 
You  needn't  be  afraid  of  me  giving  you  or  myself 
away.  Put  me  in  good  clothes  and  I'll  talk  up  to 
them  with  either  of  you.  I've  not  forgotten  I  was 
once  a  'high-flyer' — nor  my  English — nor  any- 
thing." He  checked  himself  and  gave  a  little 
wriggle,  uneasy  under  the  stony  gaze  of  the  man 
upon  the  bed. 

Petersen  indicated  the  box  of  cheroots  with  an 
abrupt  gesture.  Polliter,  who,  from  the  moment 
he  entered  the  room,  seemed  to  have  put  on  an  air 
of  refinement  quite  out  of  keeping  with  his  rough 
garb,  uttered  conventional  thanks,  and  having 
lit  his  cheroot,  moved  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  and 
leaned  with  his  arms  upon  the  rail. 

Jean  said  nothing,  but  helped  himself  as  if  it 


At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street         121 

were  only  his  right ;  then  he  appropriated  the  chair, 
tilting  it  against  the  wall,  balanced  precariously 
upon  its  two  creaking  back  legs.  For  some  min- 
utes the  three  men  smoked  in  silence. 

11  Before  we  begin  to  discuss  anything  at  all," 
Petersen  began  at  last,  in  quiet  tones,  "let  us 
have  a  clear  understanding.  Am  I  leader — abso- 
lutely— without  question  ? ' ' 

Polliter  gravely  inclined  his  head.  Jean  jerked 
the  front  legs  of  his  chair  down  to  the  floor  and 
slewed  round  towards  the  bed. 

"You  know  that  without  being  told, "  he  replied 
with  exasperation.  "Haven't  we  proved  it? 
What  else  are  we? — Oh!  curse  it!"  he  broke  off — 
"You  find  out  where  he  is,  and  let  me  get  at  him, 
and  I'll  go  down  on  my  knees  and  lick  your  boots, 
if  you  want  it." 

"Indeed!  And  what  will  you  do  to — er — him, 
when  you  do  meet  him?"  Petersen  inquired  gently. 

The  little  man  stared  in  amazement.  "Do?" 
he  snarled. 

"Ah!"  Petersen  interrupted  him.  "You  need 
not  go  on.  You  would  give  him  a  moment's  pain, 
and  then — oblivion. 

"And  we!  We  have  suffered  torture  for  twenty 
years.  You  are  a  fool,  Jean;  so  kindly  keep  your 
folly  to  yourself,  and  be  silent. 


122         At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street 

"For  the  last  time,  I  give  you  my  word  that  we 
shall  find  him.  And,  if  I  can  prevent  it,  our  man 
will  not  have  the  joy  of  dying — until  we  permit. 
But  meanwhile, "  he  continued,  with  a  crisp  change 
of  tone,  "we  can  do  nothing  without  funds.  I 
for  one  have  no  intention  of  existing  in  this  sort  of 
dog-hole.     And  it  will  not  be  necessary. 

"Before  I  go  into  that,  however,  have  either  of 
you  anything  to  tell  me?  Have  you  the  slightest 
suspicion  that  you  are  'marked'  by  any  one?" 

Polliter  took  his  cheroot  from  his  mouth  and 
answered  at  once. 

"No.  This  is  my  itinerary.  Acting  on  your 
suggestion,  I  came  by  way  of  the  'States' — fo'c'stle 
hand  from  Sydney  to  Yokohama — in  the  glory- 
hole  (as  a  flunkey)  in  another  steamer  to  'Frisco. 
There  I  worked  on  the  wharf  until  I  could  buy  my- 
self a  decent  rig-out;  then  I  got  a  job  drumming 
pictures  and  books. 

"My  old  knowledge  in  matters  artistic  proved 
useful,  even  in  cheap  lines.  I  was  surprised. 
When  I  had  made  enough  dollars  I  threw  up  my 
job  and  railed  across  to  New  York.  Cattle-hand 
to  Liverpool. 

"Then,  as  I  had  run  things  rather  fine,  I  thought 
I  was  justified  in  using  up  the  'stand-by'  money 
you  gave  me  in  Sydney  to  enable  me  to  reach  Paris 


At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street         123 

for  the  time  arranged.  From  Paris,"  he  added 
colourlessly,  "Jean  and  I  got  here  without  a  sign 
of  danger.  I  thought  a  change  of  clothing  advis- 
able ;  the  others  we  dropped  overboard  just  before 
reaching  Dover.  That  is  all,  unless  you  want 
details." 

"Not  now,"  Petersen  replied,  adding:  "In  the 
future,  remember,  eliminate  all  slang  from  your 
vocabulary,  except  such  as  you  find  customary 
among  refined  people. 

"Your  role — it  was  once  natural  to  you — is 
that  of  a  quiet  and  unassuming  gentleman  with 
modest  means.  Endeavour  to  bring  the  special 
knowledge  you  possessed  formerly  as  a  connoisseur 
up  to  date.  ...  I  am  waiting,"  Petersen  went  on 
sharply,  after  a  pause,  turning  to  Jean.  "Have 
you  nothing  to  tell  me?" 

"Yes — plenty,"  the  little  man  rejoined,  with 
the  assertiveness  of  one  who  half  expects  his 
statements  to  be  questioned;  then:  "I  went  from 
Sydney  to  Brisbane,  as  you  told  me  to.  There 
— I'm  not  afraid  to  say  it — well,  I'd  got  the  money 
you  gave  me;  and  I  had  twenty  years  to  make  up 
for " 

"Leave  that  out,"  Petersen  put  in  grimly.  "I 
knew  perfectly  well  what  would  occur.     Go  on. " 

"In  about  a  week,"  Jean  resumed,  grinning,  "I 


124         At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street 

was  on  the  beach.  Not  that  I  couldn't  have  lived 
easy,  if  I  hadn't  promised  I'd  run  no  risks.  Well, 
I  had  to  get  out  of  Brisbane,  and,  as  I  couldn't  get 
a  job  on  the  square,  I  stowed  away  in  a  French 
barque  bound  for  Havre.  There's  a  bo 'sun  aboard 
her  I'll  get  even  with  one  day — because  he  thought 
I  was  English,  he " 

"We  are  not  concerned  with  boatswains  of 
barques.     Go  on. " 

"I  slipped  the  barque  at  Havre,  and  walked  to 
Paris.  I  hadn't  forgotten  the  date  I  was  to  be 
there."  Jean  paused  and  blew  noisily  upon  his 
cheroot  to  revive  it. 

"Why  did  you  stay  outside  in  La  Bouteille 
instead  of  waiting  in  the  dancing-saloon,  as  I 
ordered?"  Petersen  demanded. 

The  little  man  put  on  a  perky  expression;  he 
had  expected  the  question.  "Because  I  wasn't 
a  fool,"  he  retorted. 

"You  listen.  I  didn't  go  straight  to  Paris  from 
Havre;  I  went  roundabout,  because  I'd  got  plenty 
of  time,  and  Paris  is  risky.     I  always  told  you  so. 

"Well,  the  Sunday  before  I  got  there,  I  was 
sitting  outside  an  inn  at  Marleon-sur-Seine,  when 
an  old  man  called  to  see  the  proprietor.  I  seemed 
to  know  his  face  and  his  voice.  It  bothered  me, 
and  I  determined  to  find  out  who  he  was. 


At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street         125 

"He  went  away  towards  evening,  and  I  made 
friends  with  the  proprietor  and  got  the  fool  drunk. 
He  told  me  the  old  man's  name  was  George  Martel, 
and  he  wanted  to  take  over  the  inn,  but  wouldn't 
give  the  price.  At  the  time  I  thought  no  more 
about  it. 

"I  got  to  the  Beche  Noire  just  before  eleven  on 
the  night  arranged,  and  I  went  straight  in;  but 
before  entering  the  dancing-saloon  I  had  sense 
enough  to  pull  aside  the  curtain  and  look  in.  I 
saw  him" — jerking  his  head  in  Pointer's  direc- 
tion— "and  I  saw  George  Martel,  too,  standing 
in  the  gallery  with  a  woman.  But  it  wasn't 
George  Martel — it  was  Louis!  And  Louis  would 
remember  me,  hang  him ! 

"I  got  outside  again,  quick.  And  we're  lucky 
if  Louis  didn't  remember  you  clever  two,"  he 
ended  up  with  surly  insolence. 

"We  need  not  worry  about  Louis,"  Polliter 
observed.     "The  man  I  fear  is  Captain  Black." 

"I  trust  Black  implicitly,"  Petersen  said  with 
emphasis.  "We  can  leave  him  out  of  our  calcu- 
lations." 

"And  if  you've  any  doubts  about  Louis," 
Jean  put  in  jauntily,  "I'll  wipe  him  off  the  slate, 
too."  His  words  might  have  been  construed  in 
two  ways;  and,  had  his  companions  noticed  the 


126        At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street 

extraordinary  malignant  look  of  satisfaction  that 
came  into  his  face,  they  must  have  been  struck  by 
the  double  meaning.  As  it  was,  they  appeared  to 
miss  it  entirely. 

Petersen  sat  upright,  and  abruptly  changed  the 
subject.  "To  business!"  he  said  briskly.  "We 
start  again  where  we  left  off  twenty  years  ago. 
We  work  under  the  rules  I  laid  down  during  our 
fortnight  in  the  schooner.  Do  you  remember 
them?" 

"Yes,"  the  others  answered  without  hesitation. 

"I  arrange, "  Petersen  went  on;  "you  carry  out. 
Between  each  achievement  you  live  upon  your 
shares  of  the  proceeds — separately — not  attempt- 
ing to  find  out  where  the  other  is. 

"And,  remember,  you  will  live  as  gentlemen, 
forgetting  the  unnatural  and  uncouth  manners 
and  mode  of  speech  which,  I  regret,  you  both  fell 
into  when  we  were  away  from  civilisation. 

"Our  meeting-place:  the  steps  of  the  British 
Museum.  Time:  noon  precisely,  upon  the  days 
which  you  will  see  announced  from  time  to  time 
in  the  personal  column  of  the  Morning  Post, 
Recognition  signal:  the  old  one;  it  cannot  be 
bettered.     Is  all  quite  clear?" 

"Who  arranged  about  the  schooner?"  Jean 
asked. 


At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street         127 

"A  friend. " 

"Who  provided  the  money  you  got  in  Sydney?" 

"The  same  friend  placed  it  in  a  bank  for  the  use 
of  John  Andrews. " 

"Man  or  woman?" 

Petersen's  eyes  narrowed.  "Woman,"  he  re- 
plied, in  a  tone  which  should  have  carried  its 
warning.     But  Jean  had  got  a  little  out  of  hand. 

"Urn,"  he  sneered.  No  word  or  phrase  could 
have  been  more  expressive. 

Petersen  threw  away  a  half -smoked  cheroot, 
and,  getting  slowly  off  the  bed,  stood  over  Jean. 

"It  is  perhaps  as  well,"  he  began  dispassion- 
ately, "that  the  opportunity  occurs  at  the  outset. 
In  spite  of  my  lessons  in  the  schooner  and,  a  few 
minutes  ago,  your  own  acquiescence  in  the  fact, 
you  do  not  yet  realise  that  we  have  reverted  to  our 
former  relationship  in  every  detail. " 

As  he  uttered  the  last  three  words,  Petersen 
seized  Jean  by  the  coat  collar  and  proceeded  to 
drub  him  with  the  precision  and  mercilessness  of  a 
schoolboy  bully,  planting  each  blow  where  it  would 
hurt  most,  yet  outwardly  show  no  mark. 

There  was  no  commotion.  Jean  offered  no 
resistance  and  made  no  outcry ;  and,  when  released, 
he  evinced  no  resentment.  He  merely  shook  him- 
self, like  a  well-trained  dog  that  has  been  beaten 


128         At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street 

by  its  master,  stood  still,  grinning  broadly,  for  a 
moment;  then  he  chose  another  cheroot,  lit  it, 
and  resumed  his  seat.  So  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
there  was  no  doubt  that  the  incident  had  closed 
and  would  be  forgotten. 

Petersen  returned  to  the  bed.  "You,  Kit — any 
questions?"  he  demanded.  His  manner  towards 
Polliter,  though  somewhat  stern,  had  none  of  the 
barely  concealed  grimness  he  adopted  when  dealing 
with  Jean. 

Polliter  chewed  at  his  cheroot  stump.  Through- 
out the  interview,  except  for  a  certain  nervous 
restlessness  of  hands  and  eyes,  he  had  hardly  varied 
his  position. 

"Only  this,"  he  said  presently.  "When  we 
have  completed  an  affair,  to  whom  are  we  to  take 
the  proceeds — that  is,  of  course,  if  the  proceeds 
need  to  be  converted  into  cash?" 

"Van  Langenberg, "  Petersen  replied. 

Polliter  stared  at  him.  "What!  The  little 
Dutchman?"  he  jerked  out.  "Heugh!  but  he's 
a  back  number." 

"Do  you  remember  my  words  as  we  lay  awake 
in  the  cave  waiting  for  dawn?"  Petersen  asked. 

"By—!"  Polliter  burst  out.  "YouVe  found 
him!  But  he's  never — "  he  broke  off,  adding, 
with   good-humoured   impatience;    "Oh!   go   on. 


At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street        129 

Tell  us  what  we  are  to  know.  I'm  your  dog.  I'm 
dumb — as  I  told  you  in  that  deuced  cave. " 

"I  have  found  Van  Langenberg, "  Petersen  said 
quietly.  ' '  It  was  a  matter  of  luck.  As  for  him,  he 
has  been  successful;  he  scorns  even  to  change  his 
name.     Let  that  pass. " 

"Van  Langenberg  will  buy  anything  from  us 
I  take  to  him,"  continued  Petersen.  "Later,  we 
will  cut  the  little  bantam  cock's  comb — or  wring 
his  neck." 

Jean  sniggered. 

"I  think  he  may  become  dangerous.  And 
because  of  that,  you  and  Jean  will  forget  his  very 
existence.  I  alone,  for  the  present,  come  into 
contact  with  him.  But  we  are  wasting  time, "  he 
continued,  putting  his  hand  into  his  coat  pocket 
and  bringing  out  two  cyclist's  maps,  which  he 
tossed  to  his  companions. 

"Follow  closely  on  those  while  I  give  you  your 
instructions,  from  which  neither  of  you  will  depart 
in  the  slightest  detail.  The  day  fixed  for  action  is 
Thursday  next.     Kit,  your  route : 

"Eight  A.  M.  train  from  Paddington.  Arrive 
Bridgnorth  soon  after  noon.  Have  you  found  that 
place  on  the  map?     Good. 

"Follow  the  River  Severn  down-stream  on  the 
right  bank  until  you  reach  the  ferry  above  the 


130        At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street 

village  of  Seckley.  Turn  up  the  road  crossing  the 
railway  near  Ardley  Station,  past  a  deserted  black- 
smith's forge  on  a  common,  bear  to  your  left  until 
you  come  to  gates  and  a  lodge  and  a  drive  lead- 
ing down  into  the  woods.  The  scale  of  miles  is  on 
the  map. 

"Time  yourself  to  be  at  those  lodge  gates  at 
9.30  p.m.  on  Thursday.  Conceal  yourself  a  short 
distance  down  the  drive.  Soon  after  10  p.m.  a 
carriage  will  pass  you  and  proceed  towards  Ardley 
Station. 

"  Probably  a  large  hound  will  accompany  the 
carriage;  if  not,  be  prepared — listen,  Jean — to 
encounter  the  animal  later.  I  suggest  the  noose 
method  I  invented  in  former  years,  so  obtain  the 
necessary  cord  and  short  staff. 

"As  soon  as  the  carriage  has  gone,  follow  the 
drive  until  you  see  a  house.  Circle  round  it,  and 
go  quickly  down  across  the  edge  of  two  terraced 
lawns,  through  an  orchard,  then  across  a  meadow 
to  the  river,  where  you  will  come  upon  a  boathouse. 

"You  will  arrive  at  the  boathouse  not  a  second 
later  than  10.20  p.m.  But  if  you  see  no  carriage 
you  will  regard  its  absence  as  a  sign  that  all  arrange- 
ments are  cancelled,  and  you  will  efface  yourself 
from  the  neighbourhood.  And  be  sure  to  watch 
your  newspaper  for  communication  from  me." 


At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street         131 

Petersen  turned  to  the  little  man.  "Jean,  your 
route : 

"Thursday  next;  9.15  a.m.  train  from  Padding- 
ton.  Arrive  Worcester  12.30.  Proceed  to  the 
river;  do  not  cross  it.  Walk  straight  up-stream 
until  you  reach  Beaudelay.  There  you  will  cross 
by  the  bridge.  Go  on  up  until  you  come  upon  a 
boathouse  with  concrete  steps  to  the  water. 
Conceal  yourself  in  the  woods  until  sixteen  min- 
utes past  ten,  when  you  will  again  be  at  the 
boathouse. 

"You  will  wait  five  minutes — Kit,  that  allows 
you  one  minute's  grace — Jean,  if  Kit  does  not  put 
in  an  appearance  you  will  regard  all  arrangements 
as  cancelled,  and  you  will  efface  yourself  from  the 
neighbourhood.  And  be  sure  to  watch  your 
newspaper  for  communciation  from  me. 

"Listen!  both  of  you,"  Petersen  continued, 
closing  his  eyes.  "On  meeting,  Kit  at  once  leads 
the  way  back  to  the  house.  Here,  Jean  leads. 
Exactly  at  10.30  p.m.  you  enter  by  the  conserva- 
tory door  which  opens  on  the  upper  lawn  and  faces 
the  river.  It  is  at  the  centre  of  that  side  of  the 
house. 

"Pass  through  the  conservatory,  through  the 
large  inner  glass  door,  into  the  hall.  Take  the 
arched,  curtained  entrance  to  the  passage  beneath 


132         At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street 

the  staircase  on  your  right;  it  leads,  I  may  say,  to 
the  domestic  offices. 

"Enter  the  first  door  on  your  left  into  a  small 
room,  thence  through  the  inner  door  to  your 
destination.  Here,  you  may  use  a  light.  Kit, 
for  the  purpose,  purchase  something  suitable. 

"Jean,  Kit  now  resumes  the  lead:  you  will 
obey  him.  Kit,  you  will  choose  what  is  to  be 
taken  and  what  left ;  and  you  will  see  to  it  that  you 
leave  no  trace  of  your  presence,  inside  or  outside 
the  house.  Jean  will  re-lock  what  he  has  unlocked. 
You  will  be  out  of  the  house  by  1 1  p.m.  You  will 
take  the  proceeds  down  to  the  river;  turn  to  the 
right,  until  you  come  to  a  steep,  wooded  hillside 
where  there  are  innumerable  facilities  for  conceal- 
ing your  burden.     Then  you  will  separate. 

"Jean,  your  part  in  the  affair  will  now  be  con- 
cluded until  we  share  profits. 

"Kit,  on  the  following  Saturday  you  will  hire 
a  pleasure  boat  at  Worcester  for  the  week-end. 
You  will  proceed  up-stream.  At  midnight,  recover 
the  goods;  return;  pass  below  Worcester;  pass 
through  Diglis  Lock;  and  two  miles  beyond, 
at  3  p.m.  on  Sunday,  you  will  meet  me  in  a 
canoe. 

"Your  part  in  the  affair  will  now  be  concluded, 
until  we  share  profits. " 


At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street         133 

Petersen  paused,  as  though  awaiting  comments. 
Receiving  none,  he  opened  his  eyes  and  repeated 
his  instructions  almost  word  for  word.  Then, 
just  as  Jean  was  about  to  speak,  he  put  his  hand 
beneath  the  pillow  and  brought  out  a  small,  neat 
wash-leather  roll  about  a  foot  long. 

"You  will  find  all  you  need  in  here,"  Petersen 
remarked.  "I  hope  you  have  not  forgotten  how 
to  use  them." 

" Forgotten!"  Jean's  rat-like  face  became  con- 
temptuously indignant.  He  snatched  the  roll 
from  Petersen's  hand,  and,  dropping  to  his  knees 
upon  the  floor,  hurriedly  unfastened  the  clasps. 
In  another  second  he  was  gloating  over  an  array  of 
curiously  shaped  tools  of  dull,  hardened  steel,  and 
exquisite  finish. 

His  supple  fingers  lifted,  balanced,  and  put 
aside  the  tools  one  by  one;  then,  choosing  two  of 
them,  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  dashed  to  the  door. 
He  seemed  to  glide  rather  than  run,  and  his  heavy 
boots  made  but  the  slightest  noise.  With  his  hand 
on  the  key,  Jean  faced  round,  his  chin  peaked 
forward.  It  was  easy  to  understand  why  Jean 
had  been  nicknamed  "the  Rat." 

"Forgotten!"  he  jeered.  "Lock  me  out,  and 
turn  your  faces  away  and  talk,  and  see  if  I've 
forgotten." 


134        At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street 

Before  they  could  reply  he  opened  the  door 
just  wide  enough  for  his  meagre  body  to  pass 
through,  and  slunk  out  on  the  landing,  closing  the 
door  silently  behind  him. 

Petersen  nodded  to  Polliter,  who  crossed  the 
room,  turned  the  key,  and  came  back  to  the  bed. 
Like  children  playing  a  game,  the  two  men  remain- 
ing in  the  room  gravely  averted  their  heads  away 
from  the  door,  and  Petersen  began  to  speak  quickly 
in  low  tones.  He  regarded  the  situation  created 
by  Jean  as  opportune. 

"Kit,"  Petersen  almost  whispered,  "what  are 
your  real  feelings  towards  him — Courtois?" 

Polliter  started.  "Straight,  Andy?"  he  mur- 
mured. 

Petersen  nodded. 

"  Hanged  if  I  know,  now  I'm  back  to  civilisation. 
Anyway,  it  seems  to  me  it  will  be  better  for  us  if  we 
don't  find  him.  Because,  when  that  happens,  we 
separate;  and  I'd  like  to  make  enough  to  retire 
altogether  and  live  quietly,  first.  I  shan't  cry  if 
we  don't  find  him." 

"  I  thought  so, "  Petersen  replied.  "You're  soft 
— always  were  at  heart.  But  you  will  stand  by  me 
whatever  happens?" 

"I  haven't  forgotten  'all  or  none'  on  that 
deuced  beach,  Andy." 


At  No.  19,  Caveen  Street         135 

11  Listen,  Kit.  If  you  should  meet  and  recognise 
Courtois,  say  nothing  to  Jean. " 

"Have  you  seen  him?" 

"No.  But  I  think — "  he  broke  off,  saying  in 
a  louder  tone:  "I  can  only  give  you  £15  each;  my 
own  supply  is  running  short. " 

Polliter  swung  round  to  meet  the  triumphant, 
yet  scowling  and  suspicious,  gaze  of  Jean,  who 
had  entered  the  room  again  unheard,  and  was 
now  moving  stealthily  towards  the  bed. 

"M d!"    Jean    snarled.     "Secrets,    hey!" 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  that  Petersen's  hands 
were  twitching,  and  he  seemed  to  freeze  gradually 
into  an  uneasy  silence. 

Two  minutes  later  Polliter  took  his  departure. 
Jean  wished  to  follow  him,  but  the  man  upon  the 
bed,  ominously  enough,  desired  the  pleasure  of 
Jean's  company  for  a  little  while  longer. 


CHAPTER  V 

INFORMATION    RECEIVED 

J  IFE,  Louis,  the  old  waiter  at  the  Beche  Noire, 
used  to  say,  had  taught  him  many  lessons ;  and 
not  the  least  of  them  the  folly  of  optimism.  None 
but  a  confirmed  optimist  can  thrust  his  hands  with 
any  eagerness  or  confidence  into  that  gigantic 
lucky-bag,  the  future.  And  Louis  considered  that 
the  price  of  the  ''dip"  demanded  by  the  present 
was  invariably  extortionate. 

Nevertheless,  for  once  it  seemed  as  if  Louis 
were  being  offered  a  dip  in  the  lucky-bag  free  of 
charge.  But  the  method  of  plunging  in  his  hands 
caused  him  some  perplexity.  At  his  age  haste 
had  few  attractions,  and  he  allowed  himself  con- 
siderable time  in  which  to  consider  the  problem  of 
the  "Invisibles." 

The  problem  was  complex,  as  Louis  soon  dis- 
covered. Discreet  inquiries  brought  forth  no 
elucidation;  there  were  no  rewards  being  offered 
for  information  that  would  lead  to  the  recapture 

136 


Information  Received  137 

of  convicts  escaped  from  New  Caledonia ;  nor  could 
Louis  find,  search  as  he  would,  in  his  newspapers 
any  mention  that  such  an  escape  had  been 
effected. 

And  yet  he  was  undaunted;  he  would  have 
wagered  his  soul  (only  Louis  had  no  idea  he  pos- 
sessed one)  that  he  had  seen  and  conversed  with  two 
of  the  once  notorious  gang  of  expert  thieves  known 
as  the  " Invisibles."  He  had  known  them  well 
by  sight  a  score  of  years  ago,  when  the  Beche  Noire 
was  under  Bricquet's  capable,  if  tight-reined 
management;  and  he  had  a  vivid  recollection  of 
the  extraordinarily  dramatic  trial  which  had 
aroused  the  interest  of  all  Europe,  and  had  ended 
in  the  gang's  deportation  for  life  to  the  penal 
colony  on  the  other  side  of  the  world. 

An  old  man's  convictions  are  obstinate :  Louis's 
opinions  were  not  to  be  shaken.  The  "  Invisibles  " 
had  escaped,  that  was  plain,  for  two  of  them  at  any 
rate  had  returned  to  Paris. 

The  knowledge  of  that  fact  alone  was  of  value  to 
some  one;  there  was  money  to  be  made  out  of  it; 
and  Louis  wanted  money — a  nice  fat,  round  sum, 
which,  added  to  his  savings,  would  enable  him  to 
doff  the  apron,  badge  of  servitude  to  the  detested 
M.  Josephs,  and  to  purchase  the  good- will  and 
stock  of  a  quiet  little  country  inn  where,  his  own 


138  Information  Received 

master  at  last,  he  might  spend  his  remaining  years 
in  comparative  idleness. 

The  scheme  was  dear  to  Louis's  heart,  and  he 
happened  just  at  that  time  to  have  in  his  mind's 
eye  the  very  inn  he  longed  for.  A  couple  of  hund- 
red francs  more  in  his  pocket,  and  the  vision  would 
materialise. 

The  question  remained:  Who  would  pay  him 
that  sum  for  the  information  he  had  for  sale?  A 
levy  (blackmail,  if  you  like:  Louis  preferred  the 
shorter  word)  pressed  upon  the  "Invisibles"  had 
its  recommendations;  but  Louis  had  recollections 
of  the  gang  that  were  distinctly  discouraging,  not 
to  say  fearful. 

Probably  he  might  never  catch  sight  of  them 
again,  for  Louis  thought  he  had  seen,  in  the  beha- 
viour of  "My  Lord"  and  "Captain  Salter,"  in 
Room  20,  signs  of  a  suspicion  that  the  Beche  Noire 
was  not  a  "safe"  trysting-place. 

Had  a  reward  been  offered,  it  is  doubtful  whether 
Louis  would  have  dared  to  claim  it.  He  had  scant 
desire  for  his  name  to  be  connected  with  the  affair ; 
the  identity  of  the  claimant  of  police  rewards 
somehow  always  did  "get  round."  With  others 
this  would  not  matter  much;  but  with  the  "In- 
visibles!" 

Louis  was  not  given  to  nervous  tremblings,  but 


Information  Received  139 

he  felt  a  distinctly  curious  "creeping"  of  the  sparse 
hair  left  on  his  scalp  at  the  thoughts  the  "  In- 
visibles" evoked. 

The  best  plan  that  suggested  itself  was  a  visit 
to  a  certain  M.  Faverol. 

Now,  Faverol' s  business  was  to  hunt  down 
criminals  and  bring  them  to  justice;  and  none, 
not  even  his  quarry,  bore  him  malice.  It  was 
(they  considered)  only  a  game  of  chance,  after  all, 
and  they  paid  their  losses,  as  a  rule,  with  equa- 
nimity, so  long  as  they  were  sure  there  were  no 
cards  under  the  table. 

Louis  was  the  kind  of  "card  under  the  table" 
they  objected  to.  To  be  explicit,  after  the  decease 
of  the  lynx-eyed  Bricquet,  Louis  had  contracted  a 
habit  of  making  periodical  "  reports"  to  M.  Faverol 
concerning  the  presence  of  undesirable  citizens 
frequenting  the  Beche  Noire,  a  habit  of  which  M. 
Josephs  was  in  happy  ignorance,  his  nearest  ap- 
proach to  enlightenment  being  a  fleeting  wonder  at 
the  extraordinary  blindness  of  the  police  to  what 
went  on  in  the  establishment  he  controlled. 

It  never  got  beyond  wondering,  because  M. 
Josephs  quickly  came  to  the  same  conclusion  each 
time :  that  it  was  his  own  cleverness  which  baffled 
all  suspicion. 

Conceit  proverbially  is  blind.     Josephs  should 


140  Information  Received 

have  known  that  the  Beches  Noires  of  great  cities 
are  of  the  greatest  use  to  the  police;  they  exist 
on  sufferance ;  and,  assuredly,  each  has  its  counter- 
part of  Louis. 

While  still  pondering  over  the  best  method  of 
making  capital  out  of  his  projected  interview  with 
Faverol,  Louis  received  early  one  morning  a  sum- 
mons to  appear  before  M.  Josephs.  For  some 
time  past  that  unshaven  worthy  had  been  study- 
ing with  peculiar  care  the  meritorious,  if  fictitious, 
register  kept  by  the  porter,  and,  as  a  result,  was 
in  a  vile  temper. 

The  receipts  had  been  dwindling,  and,  sus- 
picious of  a  "leakage,"  Josephs  had  proved 
conclusively  to  himself  that  the  porter  and  Louis 
were  hand-in-glove  in  robbing  him  of  his  hard- 
earned  gains.  It  made  Josephs  attack  his  unclean 
fingernails  so  viciously  that  he  gnawed  them  to 
the  quick;  he  was  mortified  at  such  ingratitude. 
But  he  was  in  a  dilemma. 

He  dare  not  dismiss  the  porter;  the  rogue  knew 
too  much ;  but  Louis,  that  blind,  old,  useless  bag  of 
bones,  whom  he  had  kept  merely  out  of  charity — 
Louis  should  "pack."  Josephs  was  righteously 
indignant. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  whitewash  Louis's  char- 
acter as  far  as  possible,  and  say  that  he  had  no 


Information  Received  141 

complicity  in  the  leakage  referred  to.  For  that 
the  ingenious  porter  alone  was  responsible. 

Relying  on  Louis's  general  appearance  of  dull- 
witted  old  age,  the  register-keeper  had  omitted  to 
enter  in  his  book  the  fees  and  what  he  considered 
should  be  the  names  of  a  goodly  proportion  of  the 
guests  who  had  occupied  rooms  for  which  Louis 
was  responsible.  It  was  a  simple  and  profitable 
omission,  and  it  worked  well,  until  the  greedy  pro- 
prietor began  to  be  suspicious  and  kept  a  pri- 
vate check  on  the  occupations  of  the  rooms  in 
question. 

Josephs  had  no  intention  of  sifting  the  question 
of  guilt.  No.  Louis  must  go;  his  dismissal 
would  warn  the  porter  of  the  advisability  of  honesty 
in  the  future;  and,  later,  Josephs  would  introduce 
better  arrangements  to  ensure  that  honesty. 
Josephs  had  an  immense  opinion  of  his  own  tact  in 
these  matters.  When  Louis  duly  appeared  before 
him,  he  ceased  maltreating  his  fingers,  and  cloaked 
his  rage  with  a  hypocritical  expression  of  kindli- 
ness that  would  have  deceived  no  one,  least  of  all 
the  old  v/aiter. 

"Louis, "  he  said,  "you  are  getting  old." 

"Yes,  M'sieur." 

"I  have  noticed  lately  you  have  not  been 
looking  well." 


142  Information  Received 

Louis  blinked,  and  made  no  reply;  sympathy 
from  his  employer  made  him  secretly  amused. 

"You  look  worried,"  Josephs  went  on;  "you 
have  something  on  your  mind."  It  was  a  hint. 
Josephs  was  proud  of  it.  He  looked  at  Louis 
in  a  fatherly  way,  as  if  inviting  him  to  confess  and 
be  forgiven. 

"Merely  the  interests  of  M'sieur, "  stated  Louis. 

"My  interests!"  sneered  Josephs,  his  temper 
getting  the  upper  hand.  ' '  Well,  I  am  going  to  give 
you  a  holiday — a  rest  from  your  exertions  on  my 
behalf." 

"A  holiday!"  Louis  began  to  realise  that  he  was 
"on  the  carpet." 

Josephs  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  register 
with  a  bang.  "Do  you  not  deserve  one?"  he 
cried. 

"That  is  hard  to  say,  M'sieur;  but  I  appreciate 
Monsieur's  great  kindness."  The  words  were 
humble,  and  all  that  could  be  desired ;  but  the  old 
man's  twisted  smile  and  the  lift  of  his  tufted  eye- 
brows irritated  Josephs  beyond  measure. 

"You  can  go  to-day,"  he  shouted. 

"Thank  you,  M'sieur." 

"And  to-morrow." 

"A  thousand  thanks,  M'sieur;  but  to-morrow 
is  not  necessary.     I  was  intending  to  ask " 


Information  Received  143 

"And  the  next  day,"  roared  Josephs,  "and  all 
the  days  after  that. " 

Louis  stiffened.  "Ah!  A  dismissal,  M'sieur? 
After  all  these  years? — M.  Bricquet " 

Josephs  cut  him  short.  "Go  and  join  your 
precious  Bricquet, "  he  shouted. 

"As  God  and  M'sieur  please,"  retorted  Louis 
gravely.  He  was  not  a  believer  in  a  Divine  Being ; 
but  the  phrase  pleased  him  and  would  annoy 
Josephs,  so  he  gave  it  utterance.  With  great 
deliberation  Louis  took  off  his  apron  and,  rolling 
it  up  into  a  neat  bundle,  placed  it  upon  the  table  in 
front  of  Josephs. 

"With  Monsieur's  permission  I  will  retire," 
Louis  said  with  a  bow;  then  he  turned,  walked  out 
of  the  room  with  an  elaborate  dignity,  leaving 
Josephs  staring  after  him  dumbfounded  with  rage. 

Louis  had  robbed  him  a  second  time.  Josephs 
had  expected  pleadings,  protestations,  tears  even; 
he  had  hoped  for  them,  and,  being  a  bully,  was 
disappointed  at  the  humility  of  his  victim.  More- 
over, the  humility  was  assumed;  Louis  was  laugh- 
ing at  him;  Josephs  writhed  at  his  estimation  of 
the  number  of  filched  "ten  francs,"  which  would 
give  Louis  the  courage  to  laugh  at  being  dismissed. 

Rage  is  not  a  healthy  state  of  mind  to  men  of 
M.  Josephs'  build  and  habits,  and  it  was,  perhaps, 


144  Information  Received 

a  good  thing  for  him  that  he  could  not  follow 
Louis's  movements  during  the  rest  of  the  day. 
Louis  took  care  that  no  one  should  do  that. 

The  dismissal  spurred  Louis  to  action.  On  leav- 
ing Josephs'  presence  he  clambered  slowly  upstairs 
to  his  garret,  arrayed  himself  in  his  Sunday  suit  of 
black,  and  after  transferring  a  newspaper  cutting 
from  a  drawer  to  his  breast  pocket,  left  the  Beche 
Noire  without  delay. 

Half  an  hour's  steady  walking  brought  him  to 
Faverol's  private  address.  It  was  not  yet  nine 
o'clock,  and  the  old  waiter  found  that  artist  among 
thief  catchers  smoking  an  after-breakfast  cigarette 
in  his  "study";  and,  as  Faverol  had  no  immediate 
business  pressing,  he  was  by  no  means  averse  to  an 
informal  chat. 

Faverol  put  a  certain  value  on  his  informal  little 
chats  with  those  who,  like  Louis,  came  to  him  with 
subjects  worth  gossiping  over.  The  police  agent 
was  a  genial  little  man,  always  sympathetic; 
while  he  cultivated  an  aptitude  for  inviting  con- 
fidences, of  which  he  was  somewhat  unduly  proud. 

"What  is  it  this  time?"  he  inquired  of  Louis 
with  a  playful  smile.  Then,  without  waiting  for 
an  answer  to  so  direct  a  question,  he  added,  "Oh, 
that  cafe  of  yours.  I  fear  we  shall  have  to  take 
steps — some  day." 


Information  Received  145 

He  clapped  his  hands  together  insinuatingly,  as 
though  the  B§che  Noire  were  a  troublesome  mos- 
quito and  he  were  putting  a  firm  but  kindly  end  to 
its  existence. 

"It  is  useful,"  Louis  remarked. 

"  Ah,  you  understand  so  well,"  murmured 
Faverol  approvingly.  "Yes,  it  is  useful.  But 
what  should  we  do  without  you  to  help  us?" 

Louis  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  have  been 
dismissed  by  Josephs,"  he  stated,  without  emo- 
tion. 

"Dismissed!  You! — Dear,  dear!  We  must 
have  that  altered.  You  are  too  good  and — er — 
faithful  a  servant  to  be  dismissed.  What  is 
supposed  to  be  your  fault?" 

"Age,"  replied  Louis  succinctly. 

"Phoo!" — Faverol  expended  a  deep  breath — 
"I  am  relieved.  I  was  afraid,  perhaps,  it  was 
connected  with  our  last  little  conversation.  No? 
Well,  that  at  least  is  satisfactory.  Now  about  this 
dismissal — dear,  dear! — after  thirty  years!" 

"Thirty-five  years,"  Louis  corrected  him, 
though  he  knew  Faverol  had  a  fondness  for  making 
wilfully  inaccurate  statements  for  no  apparent 
reason  whatever. 

"Thirty-five  years — thirty-five  years?  Why, 
it  is  a  life  sentence!" 


146  Information  Received 

"It  has  seemed  so  since  Bricquet  died,"  agreed 
Louis,  taking  the  serious  view  of  the  other's  last 
remark.     "That  was  a  man  to  serve  under. " 

Faverol  bent  his  head  in  tribute  to  the  qualities 
of  the  departed  villain.  "You  and  I  had  no  little 
chats  in  his  time,"  he  remarked. 

"No,  M'sieur, "  Louis  replied.  "Bricquet  was 
not  a  fool  like  Josephs.  It  was  not  wise  to  talk 
overmuch  while  Bricquet  was  alive.  The  Beche 
Noire  was  'safe'  in  those  days — and  quiet.  I 
doubt  if  even  Lavigne  gave  it  a  thought.  But  the 
trial  of  the  'Invisibles'  brought  the  place  into 
notice;  it  has  never  been  quite  the  same  since. 

"Monsieur  remembers  the  'Invisibles'?  Ah! 
what  men!  They  frequented  the  Beche  Noire 
a  great  deal  before  they  were  sent  away  to  New 
Caledonia.  Yes,  I  knew  them  well ;  and  Hippolyte 
Courtois,  the  man  who  claimed  the  reward  offered 
for  their  capture. 

"I  often  wonder  what  became  of  him.  He  was 
brave — yes;  but  if  I  were  he,  and  ever  heard  that 
the  'Invisibles'  had  escaped,  I  should  go  straight 
to  the  nearest  river  and  throw  myself  in. " 

Faverol  lighted  another  cigarette.  For  all 
Louis's  aimless  manner,  he  shrewdly  suspected 
that  the  old  man  had  a  motive  for  becoming 
reminiscent. 


Information  Received  147 

"I  remember  the  trial  quite  well/'  Faverol 
observed,  "and  I  agree  with  you.  But  Hippolyte 
Courtois  if  he  is  alive,  can  breathe  freely.  He 
runs  no  risk  now. 

"Let  me  tell  you  a  few  facts.  The  'Invisibles,' 
as  the  others  were  called,  made  several  attempts  to 
escape. 

"A  few  months  ago  they  made  their  last,  for 
they  were  eaten  by  the  natives  of  New  Caledonia 
for  their  folly. 

"There  has  been  a  rebellion  out  there — er — 
out  there.  Yes,  and  I  had  the  news  from  a — h'm 
— friend  who  came  home  wounded.  He's  died 
since,  poor  fellow." 

Faverol  sighed  to  the  memory  of  a  man  who 
never  existed.  It  was  one  of  his  curious  little 
inaccuracies  for  which  there  was  indeed  no  reason. 
Without  harm  he  might  have  said  he  got  the  news 
in  a  letter  from  a  relative  who  belonged  to  the 
escort  of  the  governor  of  the  far-distant  island. 

But  then  Faverol  would  have  lost  the  opportu- 
nity of  sighing,  and  it  has  already  been  said  that  he 
was  sympathetic. 

"As  for  Courtois,"  he  went  on,  "it  is  known 
he  went  to  Africa.  He  made  a  nice  little  profit 
out  of  his  part  of  the  affair.  Where  he  is  now, 
Heaven  alone  knows." 


148  Information  Received 

"It  was  worth  something,  then,  to  give  infor- 
mation about  the  'Invisibles'?"  said  Louis,  half  as 
a  statement,  half  in  question. 

"  Indeed  it  was,"  returned  Faverol  carelessly. 
"Andre  Gaspard  and  his  gang  were  the  cleverest 
set  of  rogues  we  ever  had  difficulty  in  laying  by  the 
heels.  They  deserved  their  name.  Lavigne,  who 
managed  their  capture,  made  his  reputation  by  it. " 

Faverol  was  jealous  of  Lavigne,  and  he  could  not 
prevent  a  touch  of  envy  from  showing  in  his  voice 
when  he  mentioned  him. 

"Supposing  the  'Invisibles'  had  escaped  alive," 
asked  Louis  with  diffidence,  "would  a  reward  now 
be  offered?" 

Faverol  expressed  his  inability  to  answer  cor- 
rectly, and  rose  from  his  chair.  He  imagined  the 
interview  was  at  an  end. 

He  had  not  been  deceived  by  Louis's  apparent 
senile  garrulity.  From  the  first  mention  of  their 
names  he  had  suspected  that  the  old  man  had 
gleaned  some  garbled  account  of  the  departure  of 
the  "Invisibles"  from  New  Caledonia,  and  had 
come  to  him  to  see  what  could  be  made  out  of  it. 
In  giving  him  the  real  facts  of  the  case,  as  he  knew 
them,  Faverol  quite  thought  he  had  knocked  the 
bottom  out  of  Louis's  hoped-for  bargain. 

But  Louis  showed  no  intention  of  taking  his 


Information  Received  149 

leave.  "If  the  'Invisibles'  had  escaped,"  he 
repeated,  slowly,  "and  returned  to  France,  the 
man  who  captured  them  would  become  famous. 
You,  yourself,  Monsieur  Faverol,  would  jump  at 
the  chance?" 

"Bah!"  exclaimed  the  other,  brushing  away 
the  subject  with  a  sweep  of  his  hand.  "About 
this  dismissal,  now " 

"If  Monsieur  would  first  answer  my  question," 
Louis  interrupted,  doggedly.  Faverol  glanced 
at  him  sharply. 

"Let  us  keep  to  facts,"  he  said,  scornfully;  but 
he  sat  down  again.     Louis  waited  in  silence. 

"Well?"  resumed  Faverol,  after  a  pause. 
"About  this  dismissal  of  yours?  What  do  you 
want  me  to  do?" 

Louis  regarded  him  with  surprise.  "Why, 
nothing,  Monsieur,"  he  answered.  "It  is  not 
pleasant  to  be  turned  away  after  so  long  a  service ; 
but  I  had  fully  intended  to  leave  the  Beche  Noire 
very  soon.  It  was  about  that  I  came  to  see  you 
to-day.  There  is  a  little  shop,  quite  a  humble 
affair,  which  I  think  I  could  take  over  profitably ; 
the  good-will  of  the  business  is  not  exorbitant. 
Two  hundred  francs,  I  think,  would  cover  it." 
He  paused,  expectant. 

"Two  hundred  francs!" 


150  Information  Received 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"Well,  now,  about  this  shop?" 

"No,  Monsieur — about  this  two  hundred 
francs. " 

"  You  have  saved. " 

"I!"  Louis  made  a  grimace. 

"You  are  concealing  something  from  me." 
— Faverol  looked  reproachful.  "Come,  it  is  a 
big  sum." 

"Monsieur  Lavigne  would  not  think  so." 

"Bah!  Let  us  leave  Lavigne  out  of  it.  That 
decrepit  old  fossil!" 

"Very  well." 

"But  two  hundred  francs!" 

"It  was  said  that  Hippolyte  Courtois  asked 
a  thousand  besides  the  State  reward;  and  Lavigne 
gave  it  to  him." 

"Ah!  you  know  that,  do  you? — But  the  'In- 
visibles' were  worth  it." 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  retorted  Louis. 
"I  ask  only  two  hundred." 

"Bah!  let  us  keep  to  facts,"  said  Faverol 
again. 

"I  am  doing  my  best  to  persuade  Monsieur," 
returned  Louis  patiently. — "Two  hundred  francs." 

Faverol  again  rose  from  his  chair,  and  left  the 
room  for  a  few  minutes.     When  he  returned,  he 


Information  Received  151 

was  carrying  a  small  bag  made  of  stout  buff- 
coloured  paper,  a  bag  such  as  one  sees  in  rows  along 
the  ledges  of  bank  counters  near  the  cashier's  desk. 
He  placed  the  bag  gently  on  the  table  in  front  of 
him,  and  kept  flicking  it  with  his  forefinger. 

"  I  am  a  man  of  my  word, "  he  said,  briskly,  very 
different  from  the  lazy  tones  in  which  he  had  been 
speaking.  "If  your  facts  are  facts — if  you  can 
give  me  one  thing  that  is  not  surmise  but  definite 
— here's  your  shop."  He  pushed  the  bag  a  little 
towards  Louis,  then  drew  it  back  again.  "If 
not " 

"One  moment,  M'sieur, "  put  in  Louis.  "If 
you  do  not  consider  my  facts  are  facts,  will  you  at 
least  be  generous?  Will  you  advise  Josephs  I  am 
still  young  and  active?" 

"I  will  not  do  so  personally;  but  it  can  be 
arranged." 

"Very  well,  Monsieur.  I  have  to  inform  you 
that  the  'Invisibles'  were  not  eaten  by  the  canni- 
bals, as  you  say.  I  tell  you,  Andre  Gaspard  and 
Kit  Polliter  were  in  Room  20  at  the  B&che  Noire 
on  the  night  of  September  1.  I  waited  on  them 
myself.  And  they  expected  a  third — Jean — the 
'Rat,'  he  was  called." 

"What  nonsense  are  you  saying!"  burst  out 
Faverol,  with  scorn;  but  he  spoiled  the  effect  by 


152  Information  Received 

adding  indignantly.  "And  you  have  left  coming 
to  tell  me  of  it  until  now!" 

"  I  could  not  leave  the  cafe,"  Louis  lied,  glibly. 

"Pooh!    A  letter " 

"I  have  the  indiscretion  to  write  a  letter! 
Surely  Monsieur  is  joking?" 

"Of  course  I  am;  and  so  are  you,  Louis,  my 
friend.  Come,  confess;  you  overheard  a  report 
that  these  men  had  escaped,  and  you  imagined  you 
saw  them.  Really,  I  begin  to  think  Josephs' 
opinion  about  you  is  right." 

"As  M'sieur  pleases.     Lavigne " 

"I  shall  'placard'  your  statement,"  Faverol 
broke  in  sharply,  "and  with  your  name  as  the 
informant." 

"Very  well,  M'sieur."  Louis  leaned  forward 
and  looked  Faverol  square  in  the  eyes.  There 
was  no  doubt,  for  once,  at  any  rate  that  he  was 
absolutely  sincere.  "If  you  do,"  he  said  slowly, 
"I  shall  drown  myself." 

"Bah!  We  waste  time,"  cried  Faverol  sud- 
denly, after  a  pause.  "You  have  my  word  your 
name  shall  not  be  divulged.  Tell  me  all  you 
know." 

"From  June  to  September,  on  the  first  of  each 
month,"  Louis  began,  "a  woman  has  been  in  the 
habit  of  coming  alone  to  the  Beche  Noire.     I  know 


Information  Received  153 

that  because  she  always  asked  for  Room  20 — one  of 
my  rooms." 

11  Do  you  know  who  she  is?"  demanded  Faverol. 

"No.  Josephs  may — possibly.  I  was  hoping 
to  find  out.  She  is  of  good  birth,  that  is  evident, 
though  she  wishes  to  be  thought  of  the  people. 
But  she  knew  the  side  door  and  the  way  things 
are  done.  I  expected  an  assignation,  and  I  was 
waiting." 

' '  Yes.     Go  on ' ' — impatiently. 

"The  last  time  I  waited  on  her,  that  is  Sep- 
tember 1,  after  she  had  supped,  she  went  on  to  the 
gallery  over  the  dancing-saloon.  It  was  a  custom 
of  hers;  she  would  wait  until  a  few  minutes  after 
eleven,  and  then  depart.  Well,  on  this  occasion 
something  happened.  Eleven  had  just  struck, 
when  Josephs  brought  in  a  man  she  evidently 
knew.  She  became  very  excited,  and  I  expected 
her  to  faint.  But,  no,  she  had  determination, 
that  one.  I  was  sent  down  with  a  message  to  the 
man  who  had  come  in.  He  was  talking  with 
another  man  who  had  been  sitting  by  himself  with 
his  back  to  us.     Josephs  had  gone  out  again. " 

"What  was  the  message?" 

" '  If  you  are  a  believer  in  luck,  come  to  Number 
20, ' "  Louis  quoted.  "  He  showed  no  surprise,  and 
followed  me  without  a  word!" 


154  Information  Received 

"Ha!  a  signal,  evidently. " 

''That  was  plain  enough,"  Louis  went  on. 
"They  had  a  long  talk.  I  tried  to  hear  what  was 
said;  but  Number  20  is  the  one  awkward  room 
for  listening. " 

"No  doubt  they  knew  that." 

"And  I  had  other  rooms  to  attend  to.  I  did 
not  gather  much.  He  called  her  'Ninette,'  and 
she  called  him  'Andre.'  They  quarrelled.  I  heard 
her  say:  'Do  you  wish  to  offer  me  thanks  for  con- 
triving your  escape?'  and  something  about  'crying 
out  his  presence  in  Paris.'  Then  I  was  called 
away  again.  When  I  got  back  the  man  Andre  was 
telling  her  to  go  to  London  and  to  make  friends 
with  the  wife  of  a  man  called" — Louis  paused, 
blinking  his  eyes —  "I  forget  for  the  moment. 
Then  the  man  Andre  spoke  about  the  Beche  Noire, 
and  asked  if  it  was  still  'safe.'  I  did  not  catch  her 
answer;  but  a  little  later  my  own  name  was 
mentioned,  and  then  the  bell  called  me  to  go  in.  I 
saw  the  woman  had  been  weeping.  A  woman  is  a 
fool  to  weep  once  her  good  looks  begin  to  go.  He 
got  her  away  as  quickly  as  he  could,  though  she 
did  not  want  to  leave  him. " 

Louis  then  gave  a  detailed  account  of  what 
happened  subsequently  in  Room  20.  Little  had 
escaped  his  notice  when  he  had  been  present; 


Information  Received  155 

and  if,  for  the  things  that  had  happened  in  his 
absence,  he  drew  a  little  upon  his  inventive  powers, 
he  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  remarkably  near  the 
truth.  Apathetic  and  dull-witted  as  Louis  would 
appear,  he  was  a  clever  old  rogue ;  and  he  made  his 
tale  circumstantial  enough  to  be  fairly  convincing. 

The  very  gaps  in  Louis's  narrative  tended 
towards  this  result.  Both  Louis  and  Faverol  were 
men  who  found  it  expedient  at  times  to  hide  their 
lights  under  a  bushel.  An  assumed  stupidity  is  a 
great  asset  in  a  world  of  bargainers.  The  good 
wine  is  in  cobweb-covered  bottles  as  a  rule. 

"I  had  my  ideas, "  Louis  ended  up.  "I  went  to 
the  window  and  looked  down  into  the  street,  and  I 
saw  Polliter,  the  'Captain  Salter,'  cross  the  'Bottle' 
and  join  a  little  man — the  'Rat'  is  very  small.  I 
did  not  see  the  man  Andre  Gaspard  again;  he 
must  have  gone  down  the  private  staircase. 
Number  20  is  at  the  head  of  it,  and  you  only  have 
to  take  a  few  steps  and  turn  to  the  left.  Evidently 
he  knew  his  way  about.  After  they  had  gone  I 
could  not  'place'  any  of  them  for  a  time ;  but  when 
I  got  upstairs  I  looked  through  my  papers,  and  I 
found  this. — I  knew  then." 

Louis  produced  the  newspaper  cutting  from  his 
pocket,  and,  unfolding  it,  offered  the  portraits  of 
Andre  Gaspard  and  his  gang  to  Faverol's  gaze. 


156  Information  Received 

Faverol,  throughout,  had  listened  with  the 
keenest  attention.  He  was  an  artist  in  his  pro- 
fession; he  realised  the  possibilities  of  fame  (as 
he  understood  it)  open  to  him  if  Louis's  facts  were 
indeed  facts.  He  was  inclined  to  be  convinced; 
certainly  he  meant  to  follow  up  this  case ;  but  it  was 
no  part  of  his  bargain  to  allow  Louis  an  insight 
into  his  intentions. 

"Phoo!"  he  exclaimed.  "How  could  you  re- 
cognise them  after  twenty  years,  almost  ?" 

"One  knows  what  one  knows,"  returned  Louis 
with  dogged  obstinacy.  He  reached  across  and 
touched  the  portrait  of  Gaspard.  "Put  a  neat 
moustache  and  beard,  greyish  and  his  own,  to 
that — and  you  have  it.  The  complexion  is  as  one 
would  expect,  with  many  lines  about  the  eyes  and 
at  the  sides  of  the  mouth.  The  eyes  are  peculiar; 
very  dark  and  deep-set.  At  times  they  appear 
almost  green.  In  person  he  is  big,  and  yet  does 
not  look  it.  He  was  strong  as  a  young  man ;  now,  I 
should  say,  he  is  a  lion.  Between  his  thumb  and 
forefinger  there  is  a  muscle  as  big  as  a  walnut.  But 
the  hands  are  not  rough. " 

"All  that  helps  little,"  said  Faverol,  abruptly. 
"And  the  other — this  Captain  Salter?" 

"Ah!  Polliter.  He  is  more  difficult,  because  his 
face,  as  you  see,  is  common.     He  is  tall  and  thin. 


Information  Received  157 

Eyes  brown.  Clean-shaved.  His  skin  is  burnt 
dark,  but  he  has  the  sallow  bloodless  look  of  one  of 
our  conscripts  sent  home  with  the  fever  from  hot 
climates.  Hair,  dyed.  Hands  never  still.  He 
has  changed  a  lot,  but  I  knew  him.  I  cannot 
explain  why,  but  I  recognised  him  before  the 
other.  It  was  while  trying  to  remember  why  I 
knew  him  that  I  came  across  this.  The  whole  affair 
was  plain  then." 

He  reached  over  and  touched  the  portrait  of 
Gaspard  again,  covering  the  lower  half  of  the  face 
with  his  fingers.  Louis  was  making  his  discovery 
seem  easier  than  it  had  been.  He  had  not  recog- 
nised Polliter  as  one  of  the  " Invisibles"  until 
the  old  portraits  brought  them  back  to  his 
mind. 

At  first  it  had  all  been  very  vague,  a  mere  suspi- 
cious intention  luckily  followed  up;  and  now,  con- 
vinced himself,  he  wished  to  state  a  good  case  for 
Faverol.  And  he  saw  that  the  secret  police  agent 
was  impressed.  Had  Louis  possessed  proof  posi- 
tive he  would  have  aspired  to  greater  profit  than 
a  paltry  two  hundred  francs. 

When  he  had  finished  his  narrative,  there  was 
a  long  pause.  Then  Faverol  crumpled  up  the 
newspaper  cutting  and  threw  it  carelessly  into  a 
waste-paper  basket. 


158  Information  Received 

"Very  interesting,"  he  remarked  pleasantly; 
"but  all  imag — er — supposition." 

"Then  the  information  is  of  no  use  to  you?" 
inquired  Louis  with  patient  resignation.  His 
eyes  blinked  and  blinked. 

Faverol  smiled  indulgently.  "I  fear  not," 
he  said.  "It  is — er — so  incomplete.  I  still  think 
the  'Invisibles'  became  a  meal,  a  tough  one,  no 
doubt."  He  chuckled.  His  life  was  so  full  of 
grim,  big  things,  that  Faverol  made  what  jests  he 
could  out  of  trivialities,  then:  "I  will  do  my  best 
for  you  with  Josephs. " 

Louis  sighed,  and  rose  from  his  seat,  murmuring 
thanks.  "By  the  way,"  observed  Faverol  art- 
lessly, "what  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  the  man 
in  London  whom  Ninette  and  that  other — milord — 
were  discussing?" 

"I  did  not  say  any  name, "  replied  Louis,  blink- 
ing more  than  ever.  He  had  relied  on  Faverol's 
notice  of  the  omission.     "I  forgot  it." 

"Tut!  A  good  memory  is  priceless;  but  it  can- 
not be  expected  to  last  for  ever.  Well,  never 
mind;  it  does  not  matter.  But  one  never  knows; 
it  might  have  been  worth  something." 

"Two  hundred  francs,  M'sieur,"  retorted 
Louis. 

Faverol   laughed   pleasantly.     "Jog   your   me- 


Information  Received  159 

mory,  my  dear  Louis,"  he  advised,  pushing  the  little 
bag  slowly  across  the  table. 

Louis  hesitated,  as  if  racking  his  brains,  then 
stretched  out  his  hand.  "The  name  is  Gautil, " 
he  said  distinctly,  as  his  fingers  took  the  place 
of  Faverol' s  and  closed  over  the  price  of  a  jogged 
memory. 

Leaving  M.  Faverol  to  reflect  at  leisure  upon  his 
bargain,  Louis  paid  a  visit  to  his  bank,  and  very 
shortly  several  more  paper  bags  were  added  to  the 
one  already  in  his  pocket. 

Louis's  savings  were  not  magnificent ;  the  officials 
at  the  bank  did  not  demand  notice  of  withdrawal. 
Then  he  took  the  train  out  of  Paris  to  Marleon- 
sur-Seine,  a  country  village  some  fifty  miles  away. 

Here,  in  the  name  of  George  Martel,  Louis  trans- 
acted very  satisfactorily  certain  business  matters 
with  reference  to  a  little  inn — (Louis  also  made 
inaccurate  statements  at  times;  he  told  Faverol 
only  what  he  thought  Faverol  should  know) — the 
inn  long  coveted ;  then  he  returned  to  Paris. 

It  was  very  late,  or,  rather,  early  (for  it  was  past 
midnight),  when  Louis  passed  up  the  quayside  and 
slipped  into  the  alley  under  Gronnet's  warehouse. 

Just  before  he  emerged  into  the  " Bottle"  he 
crouched  to  one  side  in  a  dark  recess,  for  a  man 
had  come  out  of  the  private  swing-door  of  the 


160  Information  Received 

Beche  Noire  and  came  running  past  him  through 
the  alley. 

It  was  the  porter,  conscience-stricken  on  hearing 
of  Louis's  dismissal,  and  fearful  of  the  fate  hanging 
over  himself,  now  forestalling  his  own  imagined 
doom,  and  severing  his  connection  with  the  Beche 
Noire  for  ever.  But  he  took  the  precaution  of 
taking  with  him  on  his  flight  the  whole  of  the 
night's  "takings"  as  a  kind  of  consolation. 

Louis  recognised  the  runaway,  though  he  had  no 
idea  as  to  the  reason  for  the  man's  absence  from  his 
post.  But  it  was  a  stroke  of  luck  beyond  his  wild- 
est hopes. 

Louis  had  returned  to  the  Beche  Noire  with 
vague  notions  simmering  in  his  brain,  notions  that 
he  could  not  shake  off,  and  chiefly  connected  with 
retaliation  upon  Josephs  for  an  unjust  dismissal. 
He  was  very  obstinate,  and  it  has  never  been 
hinted  even  that  Louis  was  anything  but  a  very 
unpleasant  person. 

Now  the  absence  of  the  porter,  the  one  man 
who  of  necessity  need  know  of  his  return,  allowed 
Louis's  ideas  to  course  into  a  definite  channel.  He 
pushed  open  the  swing-door  and  made  his  way 
upstairs  past  the  deserted  grille,  along  a  dark  pas- 
sage, and  up  more  stairs  to  his  garret. 

No  one  had  seen  him.     Quickly  he  pulled  out  of 


Information  Received  161 

the  box  all  his  old  newspapers,  crumpled  them 
one  by  one  with  painstaking  noiselessness, 
and  arranged  them  in  a  loose  heap  under  and 
around  the  bed. 

Then,  going  to  the  door,  he  listened  for  a  few 
moments  for  the  sounds  of  any  one  moving  below. 
Hearing  nothing  to  alarm  him,  Louis  closed  the 
door  again,  went  back  to  the  bed,  and,  striking  a 
match,  set  a  light  to  the  paper  in  several  places. 
Then  he  sped  from  the  room  and  away  from  the 
place  that  had  given  him  a  livelihood  for  the  last 
thirty -five  years. 

The  top  of  the  house  is,  as  a  rule,  the  wrong 
place  to  perpetrate  arson  successfully;  and,  per- 
haps, Louis  only  intended  to  mark  his  displeasure 
by  inflicting  a  moderate  punishment  on  M.Josephs. 
But  the  Beche  Noire  was  old,  a  place  of  dry,  worm- 
eaten  beams,  wooden  partitions,  paper,  and  paint 
— and  wickedness.  It  cried  out  to  be  cleansed 
by  fire;  and  fate,  retribution — Providence — sent 
its  answer  by  the  humble  hand  of  old  Louis. 

But  it  was  the  porter  who  got  the  blame  of  a 
stupid  world. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHAT   HAPPENED    AT    SECKLEY    COTTAGE   AT 
HALF-PAST  TEN 

"f^EORGE  HERON"  left  Janesford  under  a 
^^  promise  to  return  and  make  a  longer  visit 
as  soon  as  his  engagements  would  allow.  Trevor 
Wyer  had  found  himself  even  more  attracted  by 
his  guest's  personality  than  he  had  been  when  on 
board  the  Orassa. 

True,  it  occurred  to  the  Hon.  Trevor  that  in 
some  ways  his  friend  was  singularly  reticent;  but 
Heron  was  undoubtedly  a  gentleman,  and  Wyer 
was  satisfied.  The  idea  of  questioning  his  guest 
directly,   or  indirectly,   never  entered  his  head. 

In  Wyer  this  lack  of  the  bump  curious  was 
innate ;  he  came  of  a  family  which  instinctively 
regarded  curiosity,  if  not  as  one  of  the  deadly 
sins,  as  exceedingly  ill-bred. 

A  week  after  his  departure  Heron  wrote  from 
Nellist's  Hotel  asking  Wyer  to  come  up  to  London 
and  spend  a  few  days  as  his  guest.     The  invitation 

162 


Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m.      163 

was  put  in  such  a  way  that  Wyer  could  hardly 
refuse;  though,  strangely  enough,  he  had  no  parti- 
cular wish  to  leave  Janesford. 

Really,  Wyer  ought  to  have  found  life  there 
drag  somewhat;  he  had  far  too  much  spare  time; 
angling  was  poor,  owing  to  the  long  drought; 
and  his  social  obligations  were  almost  a  negligible 
quantity.  Besides,  as  he  told  Heron,  when  they 
met  in  London,  nothing  ever  " happened'*  Janes- 
ford  way. 

The  country  had  been  drowsing  for  centuries, 
and  apparently  intended  continuing  in  its  leth- 
argic state  for  ever  and  aye.  In  time,  even  the 
vivid  green  jalousies  added  to  Seckley  Cottage, 
which  had  so  roused  the  ire  of  Heron  and  the 
departed  Pooler,  would  lose  their  inharmonious 
look  of  wakefulness,  and  snuggle  down  to  the  never- 
ending  doze  of  the  countryside. 

Gautil,  Wyer  said,  had  not  yet  put  in  an  appear- 
ance; but  a  certain  Madame,  or  Mrs.  Aubertin,  a 
French  lady,  had  called  upon  Mrs.  Gautil  one  day 
when  Wyer  happened  to  be  present,  to  make 
inquiries  as  to  lodgings  in  Seckley  village ;  and  the 
cottages  all  being  unsuitable,  Wyer  had  recom- 
mended a  farmhouse  lower  down  the  river.  Of 
Celeste  Gautil  the  Hon.  Trevor  said  nothing, 
though   the  omission  in  itself  might  have  con- 


1 64     Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m. 

veyed  much  to  a  less  observant  person  than 
Heron. 

At  its  conclusion,  Wyer's  London  visit  was 
slightly  marred  by  an  unfortunate  occurrence.  He 
had  wished,  as  he  told  Heron,  to  return  home  in 
time  to  dine  at  Seckley  Cottage,  an  engagement 
entered  upon  before  Heron's  invitation  arrived. 

It  had  been  Wyer's  intention  to  leave  the  train 
at  Ardley  and  walk  down  the  riverside  to  the  old 
dower  house;  but  owing  to  some  mistake  on 
Heron's  part,  he  missed  the  afternoon  express 
at  Padding  ton,  and  was  compelled  to  travel  by  a 
much  later  train,  which  reached  Ardley  at  10.45 

P.M. 

In  the  interval  of  waiting  it  was  useless  return- 
ing to  the  hotel,  as  Heron  had  been  on  the  point  of 
setting  out  for  Vienna;  so,  after  sending  a  telegram 
of  apology  to  Mrs.  Gautil,  and  another  to  Janes- 
ford  ordering  that  the  dog-cart  should  meet  him 
at  Ardley  Station,  Wyer  loafed  about  Hyde  Park 
until  his  train  was  due  to  leave.  His  reason  for 
still  preferring  Ardley  Station  to  the  more  con- 
venient one  of  Beaudelay  was,  perhaps,  best 
known  to  himself;  possibly,  the  anticipation  of 
an  exhilarating  ride  behind  his  beloved  little  mare 
had  something  to  do  with  it. 

Here  it  may  be  remarked  that  soon  after  Wyer's 


Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m.      165 

message,  a  second  telegram  was  delivered  at 
Seckley  Cottage,  postmarked  Aldgate,  E.:  "Send 
brougham  to  meet  10.45  train  to-night."  This 
telegram  lacked  a  superscription. 

When  he  emerged  from  the  booking-office 
at  Ardley  Station,  Wyer  found  the  brougham 
waiting.  Hatt  was  on  the  box;  and  Boris,  the 
Gautils'  big  boarhound,  stalked  up  from  some- 
where in  the  deep  shadows  and  condescended  to 
acknowledge  Wyer  as  a  biped  known  and  to  be 
trusted. 

"Seen  anything  of  my  boy  on  the  road?"  Wyer 
asked,  feeling  very  annoyed  that  his  dog-cart 
was  not  in  evidence. 

"  No,  sir, "  Hatt  replied.  "  Beggin'  your  pardon, 
sir,  but  I  expect  he's  having  a  turn-up  with  the 
mare.  He  often  says  he  can't  manage  her  at 
night  through  the  woods." 

Wyer  swore.  An  erring  servant  was  one  of 
the  few  things  that  aroused  in  him  the  Janesford 
temper. 

"Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,"  Hatt  went  on, 
"but  do  you  happen  to  know  if  the  master  was  on 
the  train?" 

"Can't  have  been,"  Wyer  replied.  "I  was  the 
only  passenger  to  get  down." 

Hatt    muttered    something    almost    inaudibly; 


1 66     Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m. 

then:  "I'd  best  be  getting  back,  sir,  I'm  thinking. 
Might  I  offer  you  a  lift,  sir,  till  we  meet  the  dog- 
cart?" 

"Good  idea.  Thanks.  I'll  come  up  beside  you. 
I  never  could  stick  the  inside  of  a  pill-box.  Here ! 
catch  hold ! ' '  Wyer  added,  hoisting  up  his  kit-bag, 
and  swinging  himself  up  after  it. 

"You'll  excuse  me  askin',  sir,"  Hatt  said  sud- 
denly, as  soon  as  the  carriage  had  cleared  the 
station  gates.  "Didn't  you  send  a  telegram  to 
the  cottage  this  afternoon?" 

"Eh?" 

"No  liberty,  sir.  I  heard  the  mistress  and  Miss 
Celeste  talkin'  about  it." 

"Yes,  I  did  wire.     What  of  it?" 

"You  didn't  send  two,  sir?" 

"Not  to  the  cottage.     Why ? " 

"Well,  sir,  two  came — one  top  o'  t'other.  And 
I'm  thinking  they  scrummeled  'em  up  like  at  the 
post-office ;  and  that's  why  I'm  here,  and  your  boy's 
not." 

"Won't  wash,"  Wyer  replied  indifferently. 
"My  second  telegram  would  go  through  Beaude- 
lay.  Besides,  you  came  to  meet  Mr.  Gautil,  didn't 
you?" 

"I  took  it  that  way,  sir.  The  mistress  said, 
'Meet    the    ten -forty-five    with    the    brougham. 


Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m.      167 

Take  Boris.'  Mr.  Gautil  likes  the  dog  to  meet 
him,  sir;  and  it's  his  usual  train,  the  ten-forty-five. 
But  I  dunno — "  Hatt  grumbled  to  himself  for  a 
little  while;  then  suddenly  whipped  up  the  horse 
quite  unnecessarily. 

"Hullo!"  Wyer  ejaculated  indignantly. 
"What's  that  for?" 

"I  don't  like  it,  sir." 

"Don't  like  what?" 

"The  telegram,  sir." 

"You  won't  like  it  any  better  for  lashing  your 
horse." 

"Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,  but  I'm  thinking 
something  may  be  wrong." 

"Eh?" 

"A 'plant,' sir." 

"Look  here,  Hatt!  Have  you  been  stopping 
anywhere  on  the  road?" 

"  Not  a  spot,  sir.  What  I  mean  is,  if  the  master 
hadn't  meant  comin',  he  wouldn't  have  tele- 
graphed. Leastways,  he'd  'a  let  the  mistress  know 
he'd  been  stopped.  I  know  the  master,  sir.  Me 
out  of  the  way,  who's  to  know  what's  goin'  on  at 
the  cottage?  Y'  see,  sir,  we're  early  'uns  to  bed; 
and  master  won't  have  any  one  sit  up  for  him. 
He's  a  good  master,  sir — no  liberty — but  we've 
got  to  mind  our  p's  and  q's,  sir. " 


168     Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m. 

"Good  heavens!"  Wyer  broke  in.  "A  bur- 
glary, eh?  The  museum  stuff!"  Then  he  sud- 
denly bethought  him  that  there  were  none  but 
womenfolk  left  in  the  cottage.  "Whip  him  up, 
Hatt!"  he  cried.  "Why,  the  deuce,  didn't  you 
say  so  at  first?" 

Hatt  remained  silent ;  over  most  things  his  brain 
worked  slowly.  Had  it  been  otherwise,  he  might 
have  been  wearing  his  sergeant's  stripes,  instead  of 
being  a  humble,  if  very  sturdy,  guardian,  butler, 
handy-man-in-general  to  the  Gautil  family.  Pos- 
sibly Mr.  Gautil  engaged  him  for  this  very  reason. 
The  best  servant  is  not  always  the  one  with  the 
liveliest  intelligence. 

By  this  time  they  were  approaching  the  de- 
serted forge  on  the  little  common ;  and  on  turn- 
ing a  corner  they  perceived  some  distance  ahead 
a  pair  of  lights  swaying  unsteadily  across  the 
road.  Presently  plaintive  objurgations  reached 
their  ears. 

"That's  my  dog-cart,"  Wyer  exclaimed. 
"Knocks  the  head  off  a  mistake  at  the  post-office, 
anyhow.  Whoa!  Hatt.  Drop  me  down  here. 
You  drive  straight  on.  I'll  leave  the  dog-cart  at 
the  lodge  gates  and  follow  you  down  the  drive  on 
foot.  No  need  to  bring  Tom  into  this.  And  it's 
all  moonshine,  all  said  and  done,"  he  added   to 


Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m.      169 

himself,  as  he  jumped  down  and  hastened  to  take 
charge  of  the  jibbing  mare. 

At  the  lodge  Wyer  handed  the  reins  again 
to  the  lad,  bidding  him  walk  the  now  mollified 
Primrose  up  and  down  the  road  until  he  returned. 
About  halfway  down  the  drive  Wyer  came  upon 
Hatt,  engaged  in  hitching  his  horse  to  a  sapling. 
Wyer  burst  out  laughing. 

"Hullo!"  he  inquired  banteringly.  "What's 
the  idea?  Are  we  moonlighters,  bushrangers,  or 
what,  Hatt?" 

"They'd  hear  us  and  bolt  if  we  went  farther," 
grumbled  Hatt,  extinguishing  the  lamps. 

The  sky  was  pitch  black,  and  a  fitful  wind  came 
sweeping  in  gusts  up  the  valley,  filling  the  night 
with  the  rustle  of  swaying  branches.  Dead  leaves 
scurried  about  everywhere  like  frightened  rats. 
Boris  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Seckley  Cottage  gave  no  indication  that  any- 
thing was  amiss.  Thin  bars  of  light  streamed 
through  the  Venetian  blinds  in  the  hall  windows 
upon  the  carriage  sweep;  and  above,  as  the  men 
approached,  in  a  half-opened,  projecting  window 
at  the  side  of  the  house,  a  sudden  flicker  seemed  to 
suggest  that  some  one  had  lighted  a  candle. 

"  Miss  Celeste's  room, "  Hatt  whispered.  "  Step 
quiet,  sir." 


170     Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m. 

"I'll  wait  here,"  Wyer  replied.  He,  too, 
whispered,  and  was  again  struck  by  the  likely 
absurdity  of  the  whole  affair;  and  the  idea  in- 
creased as  Hatt  disappeared  round  the  house, 
walking  with  exaggerated  caution.  In  a  few 
minutes  Hatt  returned. 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  come  inside,  sir,"  he  gasped 
out,  and,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  set  off 
again,  followed  by  Wyer. 

They  entered  by  the  conservatory  door  facing  the 
lawn,  and  went  straight  to  Hatt's  box-like  room. 
The  inner  door  leading  thence  to  the  big  room, 
termed  generally  by  every  one  the  "museum," 
was  open,  and  they  hurried  through.  A  lamp  was 
burning  upon  a  glass- topped  cabinet,  where  Hatt 
had  placed  it  a  few  minutes  previously. 

Wyer  glanced  quickly  around  him.  He  had  not 
been  in  the  "museum"  before.  It  appeared  to  be 
in  apple-pie  order.  Certainly,  in  the  half-light, 
he  failed  to  detect  signs  that  burglars  had  been  at 
work;  and  he  shot  a  severe,  questioning  look  at 
Hatt. 

For  answer,  Hatt  held  the  lamp  up  high,  and 
pointed.  On  the  wall  facing  them  were  half  a 
dozen  dingy  oil  paintings,  portraits,  and  other 
studies ;  but  opposite  Wyer,  one  frame,  a  small  one, 
yawned  dismally — empty.     And  between  the  win- 


Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m.      171 

dows  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  hung  another, 
larger  frame,  also  devoid  of  canvas.  Behind  him 
was  a  third  in  a  similar  plight. 

"Cut!  As  neat — as  neat,"  Hatt  whispered. 
"They  picked  and  choosed — the  varmints !" 

11  Whee-ou !"  breathed  Wyer.  He  did  not  know 
what  to  think. 

"And  look  here,  sir" —  Hatt  pointed  to  the 
nearest  cabinet,  through  the  glass  of  which  could 
be  seen  numerous  articles  of  virtu — "there's 
three  of  them,  the  littlest,  gone.  And  in  the  next 
there's  two  gone.  This  here's  all  right ;  but  in  that 
'un  yonder  with  the  Chinee  titivations  there's 
some  gone" — Wyer  showed  plainly  that  he  was 
unconvinced — "  I'll  swear  to  it,  sir,  for  I  knows  the 
place  by  heart,  you  might  say,  dusting  it  every 
blessed  morning."  Hatt  was  as  nearly  excited  as 
his  stolid  nature  would  allow. 

Wyer  took  the  lamp  from  him  and  made  a  tour 
round  the  room,  examining  everything.  The  lids 
and  doors  of  cabinets,  the  door  to  the  hall,  all  were 
secure  and  locked.  The  windows  were  bolted, 
their  opaque  glass  intact ;  and  the  inside,  guarding 
bars  were  in  place  and  firm.  A  massive  steel  safe 
stood  in  one  corner;  apparently  it  had  not  been 
tampered  with. 

A  thought  struck  Wyer.     "How  was  the  door 


172     Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m. 

from  your  room  when  you  first  came  in?"  he 
asked. 

"Locked,  sir,"  Hatt  replied,  rubbing  his  bullet 
head.  "I  carry  the  key  about  me.  Jemima! 
it  fairly  licks  me,  sir.  My  name'll  be  Walker  when 
master  sees  this." 

Wyer  stared  at  the  man.  Hatt  did  not  appear 
to  be  the  worse  for  liquor — always  a  possible 
explanation.  Wyer  was  puzzled.  He  examined 
one  of  the  empty  picture  frames.  At  one  time  or 
another  a  canvas  had  been  cut  out,  though  so 
neatly  that  the  edges  were  barely  noticeable. 

Wyer  swore  softly.  "Go  and  call  your  mis- 
tress," he  commanded,  putting  down  the  lamp. 

Hatt  hesitated.  "No,  sir,"  he  began.  "I'm 
up  a  tree,  sir."  Wyer  strode  towards  the  door. 
Hatt  barred  the  way.  "  Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir, " 
he  went  on  doggedly,  "but  orders  is  orders.  I 
must  ask  you  to  listen  to  me." 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  mean?" 

"Master's  orders,  in  case  of  anything  like  this 
happening,  was  I  was  to  keep  mum  about  it — not 
to  tell  any  one  in  the  house." 

"Well,  the  police,  then.     Come  on,  man " 

Hatt  shook  his  head.  "The  police,  on  no 
account,  sir.  Master  said:  'Hatt,  you're  my 
police.     That's  why  I  employ  you.'     And  I  said: 


Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m.      173 

'Very  good,  sir,'  I  said.  Besides,  what's  the  use  of 
goin'  and  wakin'  P.  C.  Sheepshanks,  sir?  Half 
an  hour  to  get  to  his  cottage,  half  to  get  him  out 
and  knuckle  his  eyes  clear,  and  another  half  to 
get  him  back  here — and  then,  what's  old  Mutton- 
legs  and  his  notebook  going  to  do?" 

"Well,  you  told  me,  anyhow,"  Wyer  put  in. 

"Yes,  sir.  And  I'll  be  up  before  the  colonel  for 
that." 

"Hatt,  my  man!  Are  you  telling  me  the 
truth?" 

"What  'ud  be  the  sense,  sir,  in  me  tellin'  you  a 
pack  of  lies?" 

"Hang  it!"  Wyer  ejaculated  suddenly.  "Here 
are  we  holding  a  confounded  corroboree!  How 
about  the  people  upstairs?  Stir  yourself,  man! 
Go  and  find  out  if  they're  all  right.  Oh!  blow 
your  orders !  You  can  make  the  excuse  you  came 
up  to  say  your  master's  not  arrived.  Go  on! 
Can't  you  see  it  won't  do  for  me  to — "  He 
broke  off,  holding  up  his  hand  to  enjoin  silence. 
The  handle  of  the  door  leading  to  the  hall  had 
been  turned,  and  now  some  one  was  knocking 
gently. 

"Dad!  is  that  you?"  they  heard. 

"Miss  Celeste,  sir!"  whispered  Hatt,  and  puffed 
out  the  lamp. 


174     Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m. 

"You  idiot!"  exclaimed  Wyer  angrily,  in  low 
tones.  "Oh,  well,  for  goodness'  sake,  get  out  and 
explain. " 

"What  shall  I  say,  sir?"  Hatt  whispered  anx- 
iously. 

"Say  your  master's  not  come." 

As  Wyer  realised  afterwards,  he  omitted  to  do 
the  obvious  thing — relight  the  lamp  at  once. 
But  the  darkness  made  him  feel  a  fool — like  a 
burglar  himself.  To  add  to  his  discomfiture,  he 
heard  footsteps  in  the  passage  to  Hatt's  room,  and 
Celeste  Gautil's  voice  inquiring : 

1 '  Hatt !     Is  that  you,  Hatt  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  miss."  Hatt  planted  his  burly  form 
in  the  outer  doorway. 

"Oh,  that's  right!"  in  tones  of  relief;  then,  as 
if  not  quite  satisfied,  "But  I  did  not  hear  the 
carriage?" 

"Didn't  you,  miss?"  replied  the  wary  Hatt. 
"Begging  your,  pardon,  miss,  but  the  master's 
not  come." 

"Not  come?  Then  who  were  you  talking  to  in 
there?" 

"Talking,  miss?"  The  waters  of  diplomacy 
were  too  deep  for  Hatt.  He  was  floundering. 
To  cut  the  situation  short,  Wyer  struck  a  match 
and  relighted  the  lamp. 


Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m.     175 

"Who  is  in  there?"  Celeste  Gautil  demanded. 
"  Stand  aside,  Hatt.     I  detest  mysteries. " 

The  ex-soldier  took  two  paces  to  the  left,  and 
Wyer,  coming  from  the  inner  room  carrying  the 
lamp,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  girl  in  the  passage. 

A  long,  loose,  pale-blue  silk  kimono  enveloped 
her  slim  figure;  and  her  hair,  usually  so  delight- 
fully irrepressible,  was  now  brushed  smoothly 
back  from  her  temples,  Puritan-like,  and  plaited 
for  the  night.  It  should  have  made  her  appear 
younger,  more  girlish;  but,  instead,  she  seemed 
to  Wyer  to  have  become  a  woman,  and  a  most 
beautiful  woman.  A  slight  flush  tinged  her 
cheeks,  though  she  was  superbly  without  self- 
consciousness. 

Wyer  suddenly  became  aware  that  he  possessed 
such  things  as  pulses. 

"Mr.  Wyer!"  Celeste  exclaimed.  She  regarded 
him,  he  thought,  frigidly,  with  a  trace  of  mistrust 
even  in  her  steady,  brown  eyes. 

Wyer  put  the  lamp  upon  a  table  near  a  low  camp 
bed,  and,  to  make  it  easy  for  her  to  depart,  he 
pretended  to  busy  himself  with  the  wick.  But 
to  his  surprise,  when  he  looked  up  again  she  was 
still  at  the  door. 

"Well?"  she  demanded  coolly. 

Slightly    nettled,    Wyer    put    on    the    "grand 


176     Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m. 

manner."  "I  beg  to  apologise  for  my  apparent 
intrusion,"  he  said  in  ultra-polite  tones.  "If  you 
will  allow  me,  I  will  go.  My  presence  here  is 
capable  of  the  most  simple  explanation. " 

The  girl  stood  her  ground.  "  If  it  is  so  simple, " 
she  retorted,  copying  his  manner,  "I  shall  be 
obliged  if  you  will  kindly  explain  now." 

Wyer  inclined  his  head.  "  Would  it  not  be, 
perhaps,  more  suitable  to  wait  until  morning?" 
he  returned  suavely. 

With  a  little,  almost  petulant,  exclamation,  the 
girl  turned  to  Hatt. 

"Where  is  my  father?" 

"Not  come,  miss" — with  an  air  of  "that's- 
an-easy-one. " 

"Then  why  has  the  carriage  not  returned? 
Where  is  it?" 

"Halfway  up  the  drive,  miss,"  Hatt  replied 
sheepishly,  feeling  cornered. 

"Yes,  we  tied  the  horse  to  a  tree,"  Wyer  inter- 
posed; then  immediately  cursed  himself  for  a 
facetious  fool. 

Celeste  ignored  him.    "  Hatt !    Explain,  please ! " 

"It's  right,  miss.  Beggin'  your  pardon,  miss; 
but  when  I  found  the  master  wasn't  come,  I  got 
uneasy  like.  Me  and  the  dog  out  of  the  way,  miss 
— there's  a  lot  of  vallybles  in  there,  miss"  (Hatt 


Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m.      177 

jerked  his  thumb  towards  the  museum).  "And 
meeting  Mr.  Wyer — his  dog-cart's  waiting  top  of 
the  drive — I  made  bold  to  ask  him  to  come 
along.  Two's  better'n  one,  miss,  y'see.  I  left  the 
brougham  in  the  drive,  because " 

"Ah!"  Celeste  interrupted  him.  "You  feared 
a — a — burglary. — And  has  there  been  one?" 
Wyer  turned  away. 

"No,  miss,"  Hatt  lied  stoutly. 

"Where  is  Boris?" 

"Can't  say,  miss.  Last  I  saw  of  Boris,  he  was 
chasin'  something,  a  rabbit  maybe,  down  the 
drive."  Boris,  it  must  be  stated,  was  about  the 
size  of  a  young  donkey,  and  possessed  a  correspond- 
ing dignity. 

"Then  it  was  Boris  I  heard!"  the  girl  exclaimed, 
half  to  herself. 

She  turned  to  Wyer.  "Perhaps  it  is  I  who  owe 
you  an  explanation,"  she  remarked,  with  studied 
indifference.  "I  thought  I  heard  some  one  walk 
past  beneath  my  window;  then  I  heard  Boris  mak- 
ing a  very  unusual  noise  down  towards  the  river; 
and  I  was  silly  enough  to  imagine  burglars,  too. 
Then,  listening  outside  my  door,  I  heard  voices 
in  the  house,  and  was  a  little  surprised,  as  I  had 
not  heard  the  carriage  return.  And  it  was  dark 
in  here;  and  Hatt  was  so  stupidly  mysterious" — 


178     Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m. 

she  broke  off  abruptly;  and  Wyer  thought  he 
detected  the  ghost  of  a  smile,  instantly  repressed. 

"Hatt!  Fetch  the  brougham  at  once,  please; 
and  see  that  Boris  comes  in.  Good-night,  Mr. 
Wyer." 

When  she  had  gone  the  men  exchanged  swift 
glances.  "We'd  best  be  going  after  Boris,"  Hatt 
said.  "Like  one  of  them,  sir?"  indicating  a 
couple  of  stout  cudgels  standing  in  a  corner. 

"No.  Prefer  my  fists.  Look  here,  Hatt!  I 
can't  leave  my  mare  walking  up  and  down  all 
night.  You  get  the  brougham  in,  then  follow 
Boris  down  to  the  river.  He's  as  good  as  two 
men."  Hatt  nodded.  "They  can't  have  had 
more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  start.  We  must 
just  have  missed  them.  Miss  Gautil  heard  Boris 
shouting  after  we  came  in.  We  didn't  hear  him. 
Ten  to  one  they've  got  a  boat  and  will  go  down- 
stream. You  beat  down,  and  I'll  push  my  mare 
and  try  to  cut  'em  off  on  the  flat  by  Janesford.  I 
won't  tell  my  lad,  unless  it's  necessary.  If  I  don't 
see  any  signs  of  the  beggars,  I'll  come  up-stream  to 
meet  you.     Right?     Come  on,  then." 

Wyer  ran  up  the  drive  at  top  speed.  In  the 
road  near  the  lodge,  he  came  upon  his  lad  standing 
at  the  mare's  head  and  having  great  difficulty  in 
restraining  her. 


Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m.      179 

"You're  too  rough  with  her,"  Wyer  cried 
angrily,  as  he  sprang  into  the  dog-cart  and  grasped 
the  reins.  Tom  scrambled  up  behind  as  best  he 
could,  and  the  mare  set  off  along  the  pitch-black 
road  at  a  furious  speed. 

"If  you  please,  sir,  she  was  as  quiet  as  a  lamb 
after  you  left ;  but  as  I  was  comin'  along  just  now  a 
little  chap  slithers  over  the  hedge  and  runs  acrost 
the  road  like  a  weasel,  right  under  her  very 
nose,  a'most.  I  thought  she'd  jump  outen  her 
skin." 

"Humph!"  growled  Wyer.  "Poacher,  I  sup- 
pose." Inwardly  he  swore,  thinking  to  himself, 
"That's  one  of  the  beggars  got  clear,  for  a  fiver." 
But  he  pushed  Primrose  along  the  harder. 

On  reaching  the  Janesford  avenue  gates  Wyer 
got  down  and  sent  the  lad  on  with  the  dog-cart, 
saying  he  wanted  to  get  something  out  of  his  boat, 
which  was  moored  close  by.  But  in  a  few  mo- 
ments he  hurried  back  up  the  bank,  scanning  the 
stream  intently  as  he  went.  It  was  nearly  one 
o'clock,  when,  on  turning  the  sharp  corner  at 
Folley  Ford,  Wyer  almost  ran  into  Hatt. 

"Seen  the  varmints,  sir?" 

"No.     Where's  Boris?" 

"Haven't  seen  or  heard  him,  sir,"  said  Hatt. 
"Gone  home,  I  s'pose. " 


180     Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m. 

"Or  on  a  man  hunt."  Wyer  then  told  Hatt  of 
the  man  who  had  frightened  his  mare. 

"It's  heaven  help  him,  if  Boris  lays  hold," 
Hatt  said  grimly.     "What's  to  be  done  now,  sir?" 

"The  police.  No  other  course  open,"  Wyer 
replied. 

"Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,"  Hatt  pleaded,  "but 
I  hope  you  won't.  It's  the  sack  for  me,  most  like, 
whatever  happens.  But  if  things  are  kept  quiet 
until  Mr.  Gautil  comes  home,  maybe  I've  a  chance ; 
for  I  can't  hardly  be  blamed,  when  all's  said  and 
done.  And  I'd  be  sorry  to  leave  a  good  place — and 
Miss  Celeste,  sir,"  he  added. 

Wyer  lit  his  pipe,  offered  Hatt  his  tobacco  pouch, 
and  smoked  for  a  while,  pondering  deeply.  Had 
there  been  a  robbery,  after  all?  "All  right,"  he 
said  presently,  though  with  evident  disapproval. 
Then:  "Well,  I  suppose  there's  nothing  for  it  but 
"bed,  unless  you'd  like  me  to  go  back  with  you. 
No?     Very  well;  good-night." 

"Good-night,  sir,  and  thank  you." 

Wyer  fully  intended  calling  at  Seckley  Cottage 
the  next  day  or  so  for  the  purpose  of  getting  to  the 
bottom  of  the  affair;  but  an  unexpected  pressure 
of  work  and  a  curious  reluctance  on  his  own  part 
combined  to  prevent  him.  Then  one  afternoon 
Hatt  rode  over  on  horseback  with  a  letter. 


Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m.      181 

"From  the  master,  sir,"  he  said.  "I  was  to 
deliver  it  by  hand." 

"Mr.  Gautil's  home?     That's  a  good  thing." 

"Come  and  gone  again,  sir." 

"Gone  again!" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  drove  him  to  the  station  this  morn- 
ing." 

"I  hope  Mr.  Gautil  was  not  very — upset." 

"Upset,  sir?  No,  sir.  He  seemed  quite  him- 
self, sir — and,  beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,  if  that's 
not  the  answer  you  looked  for."  Hatt's  face  was  a 
study ;  and  Wyer's  opinion  of  him  as  a  servant  rose 
appreciably.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  impli- 
cation that  the  man  had  been  told  to  keep  his 
tongue  between  his  teeth. 

"Quite  right,"  Wyer  said.  "But,  if  it  isn't 
against  orders,  I'd  like  to  know  what  became  of 
Boris  the  other  night." 

"When  I  got  back,  sir,"  Hatt  replied  slowly,  "I 
had  a  look  round  the  boathouse.  And  there  was 
the  dog  hanging  by  his  collar  to  the  top  of  the  high 
rails." 

Wyer  gave  vent  to  an  expressive  whistle.  "  Not 
dead?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir.  Haven't  you  heard?  Strangled. 
Jumped  short,  I  s'pose." 

"Poor  devil!     But,  hang  it!  a  heavy  dog  like 


1 82      Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m. 

Boris  would  have  pulled  those  flimsy  railings  down 
in  his  struggles." 

If  Hatt  had  been  a  Frenchman,  he  would  have 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  As  it  was,  his  expression 
became  pronouncedly  more  stolid  than  usual,  even. 
"Yes,  sir,"  he  said,  "begging  your  pardon,  sir — 
certainly,  sir,"  and  touched  his  forehead. 

Perceiving  there  was  no  more  to  be  got  out  of  the 
man,  Wyer  turned  aside  and  tore  open  the  letter. 

"Dear  Mr.  Wyer" — he  read — "I  understand 
you  were  put  to  considerable  inconvenience  on 
my  account  a  few  nights  ago.  Please  accept  my 
thanks  and  apologies  for  the  stupidity  of  an  over- 
zealous  servant.  I  was  detained  in  London,  and 
omitted  to  advise  my  family.  You  will  be  relieved 
to  learn  that  Boris,  my  dog,  was  the  only  loss 
I  sustained.  As  I  dislike  publicity  in  any  form,  I 
shall  esteem  it  a  favour  if  you  will  aid  me  in  avoid- 
ing the  same.  And  really,  my  little  things  are  of  no 
value  likely  to  tempt  dishonest  persons. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"Sebn.  Gautil." 

"No  answer,  Hatt,"  Wyer  said,  when  he  had 
read  the  letter  a  second  time.  "Tell  Parminter  to 
draw  you  some  beer,  or  ask  for  a  cup  of  tea,  if  you 
prefer  it." 


Seckley  Cottage  at  10.30  p.m.      183 

Hatt's  visage  lost  all  its  woodenness ;  and,  divin- 
ing what  his  choice  of  beverages  would  be,  Wyer 
began  once  more  to  wonder  if  his  first  impression 
had  not  been  the  right  one:  that  Hatt's  burglary, 
after  all,  could  be  explained  in  terms  of  beer. — 

But  those  empty  picture  frames! 


CHAPTER  VII 

VAN   LANGENBERG,    SHIPPER   OF   WINES 
AND    SPIRITS 

A  BOUT  halfway  down  the  Ziegelstraat  in 
^^  Rotterdam,  adjoining  a  narrow  alley  leading 
to  some  boat  steps  at  the  canal  side,  there  is  a  small 
warehouse.  The  warehouse  at  the  present  day 
lies  idle ;  but  a  legend  in  black  lettering  across  the 
dingy  office  window  still  states  that  here,  one,  Van 
Langenberg,  carried  on  the  business  of  "Shipper 
of  Wines  and  Spirits." 

A  modest,  retiring  kind  of  business,  it  was  lack- 
ing in  modern  "push,"  and  not  given  to  advertise- 
ment. Apparently,  just  enough  cases  and  casks 
passed  through  the  warehouse  to  keep  one  clerk, 
two  warehousemen,  and  one  canal  barge  tolerably 
well  employed,  and  allow  the  principal,  Van 
Langenberg,  to  make  both  ends  meet  financially. 
That  was  the  opinion  of  the  Ziegelstraat. 

Van  Langenberg  himself  was  regarded  as  an 
amiable  eccentric,  but  a  very  poor  man  of  business. 

184 


Van  Langenberg  185 

His  small,  rotund  figure,  with  its  jaunty  gait,  his 
twinkling  blue  eyes  behind  the  big  lenses  of  his 
spectacles,  and  his  ever-ready  smile,  were  the  very 
personification  of  good  humour.  He  had  an  open, 
ingenuous  manner,  and  he  would  chat  with 
all  and  sundry  about  everything  under  the  sun, 
his  own  private  affairs  not  excepted.  Every- 
thing interested  him,  and  nothing  ever  seemed 
to  disturb  him.  Why  should  it?  he  would  ask, 
when  he  had  not  a  care  in  the  world.  He  was 
unmarried,  and  he  had  the  stomach  of  a 
schoolboy. 

Van  Langenberg  lived  on  the  premises  where  he 
made  his  money.  No  doubt  his  choice  of  domicile 
first  gained  for  him  the  reputation  of  eccentricity, 
for  few  men  of  his  position  would  care  to  reside  in 
the  Ziegelstraat — never  a  cheerful  locality,  desolate 
at  night,  and  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year  invari- 
ably foggy. 

It  is  curious  that  during  the  whole  fifteen  years 
of  Van  Langenberg's  residence  in  the  Ziegelstraat 
he  had  never  invited  any  one  up  to  his  private 
apartments.  It  was  his  one  reservation.  He  took 
his  meals  and  enteitained  his  acquaintances  at  his 
club ;  and  the  general  opinion  was  that  Van  Langen- 
berg's private  quarters  would  not  stand  the  test  of 
an  inspection,  an  opinion  confirmed  by  his  own 


1 86  Van  Langenberg 

frequent  assertions  that  he  found  his  domestic 
arrangements  very  economical. 

One  misty  evening,  a  few  minutes  before  the 
warehouse  and  offices  closed  for  the  night,  an  odd- 
job  porter  entered  Van  Langenberg's  office  and 
deposited  upon  the  floor  a  long  and  heavy  leathern 
trunk  which  he  had  been  carrying.  He  was  fol- 
lowed closely  by  the  owner  of  the  trunk,  who  had 
"commercial"  in  every  line  of  him.  Stout,  round- 
shouldered,  wearing  a  grizzled  beard  and  mous- 
tache, the  "commercial"  walked  with  the  springless 
gait  of  the  flat-footed.  Few  would  have  glanced 
at  him  twice,  though,  curiously  enough,  had  he 
passed  him  in  the  street,  the  Hon.  Trevor  Wyer 
might  have  swung  round  for  a  second  look,  wonder- 
ing to  himself,  "Who  the  deuce  does  that  bounder 
remind  me  of?" 

Possibly  the  answer  might  have  been,  "George 
Heron."  But  on  further  inspection  the  illusion 
would  have  been  dispelled.  At  the  most  it  was 
a  fleeting,  and  by  no  means  a  flattering,  likeness. 

The  "commercial"  paid  the  porter  and  dis- 
missed him ;  then  he  turned  to  Van  Langenberg's 
clerk,  who  at  that  moment  was  ostentatiously 
changing  his  coat,  preparatory  to  finishing  work  for 
the  day. 

The   "commercial"   pressed   a  card   upon   the 


Van  Langenberg  187 

counter  with  his  thumb.  "By  appointment," 
he  said  in  a  husky  voice;  "and  bustle,  my  lad,  for 
I  am  as  anxious  to  get  away  from  this  misbegotten 
place  as  you  are.  I  should  think  the  devil  was 
your  paviour  in  these  parts."  He  shuffled  his 
feet  gingerly,  as  if  they  still  suffered  from  the 
effects  of  the  cobble-stones,  with  which  it  may  be 
said,  the  Ziegelstraat  is  paved  from  end  to  end. 

For  a  second  or  two  the  clerk  meditated  upon  a 
smart  retort,  but,  thinking  better  of  it,  he  snatched 
up  the  pasteboard  and  glanced  at  the  name  printed 
thereon. 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  an  appointment,"  he 
said  cheekily.  He  had  no  little  experience  of 
travellers'  "bluff"  to  obtain  interviews  with 
his  employer. 

"You  can't  be  expected  to  know  everything  at 
your  tender  age,  my  lad." 

"What's  your  'line'?     I  forget. " 

"Ledgers,  stationery,  office  knicknacks " 

"We  don't  want  anything.  Anyway,  you'd 
better  call  again  in  the  morning." 

"Go  and  tell  your  master  I'm  here — by  appoint- 
ment,"  said  the  "commercial"  quietly. 

The  clerk  was  about  to  utter  a  glib  lie  that  his 
master  had  gone  home  an  hour  ago,  when  Van 
Langenberg  himself  came  down  the  stairs  and  into 


1 88  Van  Langenberg 

his  office.  On  seeing  the  "commercial,"  he 
stopped  short.  Standing,  as  he  did,  with  his  head 
cocked  to  one  side,  his  mottled  brown  waistcoat 
bulging  forward,  and  his  hands  under  his  coat  tails, 
he  appeared  ridiculously  like  a  pert  young  robin 
whose  breast  has  not  yet  got  its  first  tinge  of 
red. 

"So!"  he  twittered.  "It  is  the  German  'travel- 
ler/    Yes.     And  he  has  come  again. " 

"A  man  in  my  business  lives  by  coming  again, " 
the  "commercial"  replied.  "Besides,  I  come  by 
appointment.     Have  you  forgotten?" 

"Hey?     And  I  gave  him  an  appointment?" 

"You  did." 

"  H'm !  What  have  you  got  ?  That  trunk  looks 
heavy." 

"Ledgers,  stationery — and  other  things." 

"Well,  a  promise  is  a  promise;  and  I  keep  my 
promises."  Van  Langenberg  turned  to  his  clerk, 
who  was  listening  in  sulky  silence.  "Young 
man,"    he    said,   "do  we   want    any  ledgers?" 

"No,  mynheer." 

"Do  we  want  anything?" 

"We  could  do  with  a  little  stationery,  perhaps, " 
the  clerk  replied  grudgingly.  "But  Olsens'  travel- 
ler is  due  next  week,  and  they're  our  usual  firm. " 

"I   can   quote   you   cheaper   and   better   than 


Van  Langenberg  189 

Olsens, "  the  "commercial"  put  in  with  profes- 
sional eagerness.     "My  house " 

Van  Langenberg  interrupted  him  pleasantly. 
"You  can  go  home  to  your  young  wife,"  he  said 
in  indulgent  tones  to  his  clerk.  "Close  the 
office.  This  gentleman  and  I  will  look  at  station- 
ery together." 

Muttering  about  the  advantage  of  cheapness, 
he  led  the  way  upstairs.  The  "commercial" 
followed,  staggering  under  the  burden  of  his  wares. 

Van  Langenberg' s  sanctum,  evidently,  had  once 
been  part  of  the  warehouse,  for  at  one  end  a  kind 
of  alcove  projected  out  over  the  canal  lying  directly 
beneath. 

A  small,  swinging  crane  for  raising  or  lowering 
merchandise  was  still  in  position,  swung  in  flat 
against  the  wall,  and  a  close  examination  would 
have  shown  that  the  floor  was  "trapped." 
Giving  an  extensive  view  over  the  canal,  a  window 
had  been  fitted  into  the  alcove. 

On  the  opposite  wall  of  the  long  room  another 
window  overlooked  the  Ziegelstraat ;  and  a  third 
window,  a  mere  peephole,  looked  down  into  the 
narrow  alley  previously  mentioned. 

All  these  windows  were  heavily  curtained.  In 
the  centre  of  the  room,  nearly  opposite  the  door 
leading   down   to   the   clerk's   office,    and   facing 


190  Van  Langenberg 

the  alcove,  stood  a  massive,  green  baize-covered 
desk,  upon  which  rested  a  big  lamp  with  a  green 
glass  shade.  Wooden  cases  and  bottles  of  glass  or 
earthenware  lay  about  in  disorder  on  all  parts  of 
the  uncarpeted  floor. 

To  the  left  of  the  desk  stood  a  tall,  glass-fronted 
cupboard,  its  shelves  packed  tight  with  ledgers, 
and  brown  paper  parcels  tied  with  variously  col- 
oured tapes. 

A  few  yards  to  the  right  of  the  cupboard  the 
wall  projected  into  the  room  in  the  form  of  a  right 
angle,  in  the  shorter  side  of  which  was  a  door  that 
the  Ziegelstraat  surmised  led  to  Van  Langenberg 's 
private  apartments. 

Having  ushered  the  "commercial"  into  his 
sanctum,  Van  Langenberg  waited  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs,  until  the  banging  of  a  door  below  an- 
nounced the  clerk's  departure.  Then  the  Dutch- 
man closed  the  door  at  the  stair-head  and  swung 
round  upon  his  visitor. 

"Ach!  Gott!"  he  burst  out,  spluttering  with 
sudden  rage.  "You  come  again — you!  You 
come  after  what  I  said  to  you  last  time — without 
sending  me  word — like  a  fool — who  cannot  wait 
until  it  is  dark.  And  you  bring  a  trunk  that  size, 
and  ask  my  clerk  to  believe  it  contains  ledgers — 
and  stationery.    Ledgers!    Stationery!    Ach!    I — 


Van  Langenberg  191 

I  could  kill  you! — poke  out  your  eyes — like  this 
—    Ouf!  Ouf!" 

"Gently!"  interposed  the  other,  quite  unmoved 
by  the  little  man's  fury.  "Gently!  or  you  will 
burst  a  blood-vessel.  You  are  too  stout  for 
rages,  Mynheer  van  Langenberg." 

"I  will  burst  twenty  blood-vessels,  if  I  like! 
And  who  are  you  to — "  He  cut  short  his  rush 
of  words,  calming  down  with  a  suddenness  that 
would  have  been  comical  had  it  not  suggested 
design,  that  his  outburst  was,  largely,  a  pose. 
Walking  slowly  across  to  his  big  chair  at  the  desk, 
he  seated  himself,  and  added  grudgingly:  "Yes. 
You  are  right.  The  doctor  warned  me,  just  so. 
But  who  are  you?     Tell  me  that. " 

"My  name  is  on  my  card.  It  will  serve  you, 
as  'Van  Langenberg'  serves  me." 

"  Boof !     Is  that  all  you  will  say?  " 

"  On  that  subject — yes. " 

"Then  I  will  not  buy  your — stationery." 

"You  will,  when  you  have  seen  it.  You  will 
pay  promptly,  too.  I  give  you  credit — er — only 
for  not  being  an  idiot." 

"And  I  give  you  credit  for  nothing.  I  do  not 
like  you.  I  will  not  see  your  stationery.  It  is  rub- 
bish. Take  it  to  the  pawnshop."  Van  Langen- 
berg surreptitiously  pulled  open  a  drawer. 


192  Van  Langenberg 

Instead  of  arguing,  the  "commercial"  knelt 
down  and  began  unfastening  his  trunk.  Happen- 
ing to  glance  up,  he  found  himself  looking  into  the 
barrel  of  a  small  revolver  which  the  Dutchman 
was  holding  in  both  hands,  his  elbows  planted 
firmly  upon  the  desk.  Van  Langenberg  seemed  to 
enjoy  the  situation. 

"What  prevents  me?"  he  said  thoughtfully,  as 
if  to  himself.  "No  one  would  hear.  I  wait  for  a 
steamer  passing  to  blow  her  siren,  then — bang! 
And  I  get  rid  of  something  I  have  no  use  for — a 
fellow  who  one  day  springs  from  nowhere  into  my 
office  like  a  jack-in-the-box,  and  says  to  me, 
'You  were  not  always  in  the  wine  and  spirit  busi- 
ness. You  used  to  buy  and  sell  other  things — the 
Kohinoor,  if  it  was  brought  to  you.  I  will  not 
bring  you  the  Kohinoor  yet;  but  I  am  going  to 
bring  you  other  things,  and  you,  Van  Langenberg, 
will  buy  them/ 

"And  when  I  say  I  do  not  understand  him, 
and  ask  him  to  account  for  himself,  he  says,  'No. 
But  you  shall  buy  my  stationery/  Now,  I  say, 
I  will  not  buy  his  stationery;  but  perhaps  I  will 
take  it  from  him. 

"And  he  will  not  care  one  jot,  because  his  carcase 
will  be  stuck  in  the  mud  at  the  bottom  of  the  canal. 
And  he  will  keep  quite  still,  in  answer  to  that. " 


Van  Langenberg  193 

"Try  not  to  be  a  fool,"  said  the  " commercial' ' 
coolly.  "I  told  you  I  gave  you  credit  for  that 
much.  But  neither  am  I  a  fool.  In  case  you 
might  think  so,  let  me  tell  you  I  have  left  an 
interesting  document  with  the  right  person,  my 
lawyer,  my  banker,  whoever  you  like.  If  I  do  not 
claim  the  document  within  a  fixed  time,  it  will  be 
read,  and  then,  Van  Langenberg  will  ship  no  more 
wines  or  spirits,  or  other  things.  So  you  will  see 
my  stationery. " 

He  stooped  unconcernedly  over  his  trunk  again. 

For  a  moment  the  expression  on  Van  Langen- 
berg's  face  became  fiendish.  Then,  very  slowly, 
he  put  the  weapon  away  and  pushed  the  drawer  to 
with  a  click. 

"One  must  be  cautious,"  he  whined,  while 
scowling  at  the  other's  rounded  shoulders.  "  I  am 
a  nervous  man.     Ach !  but  one  must  be  cautious. " 

"Then  why  be  stupid  enough  to  blame  me  for 
being  cautious?"  the  "commercial"  replied  with- 
out turning  round. 

"But  cautious  with  me!"  grumbled  the  Dutch- 
man, in  pained  tones. 

"With  every  one,  Mynheer  van  Langenberg." 

Van  Langenberg  beat  a  soundless  tattoo  upon 
the  desk  with  his  plump  fingers.  "At  least  you 
will  tell  me  who  spoke  to  you  of  me — of  me,  not  as 
13 


194  Van  Langenberg 

the  shipper  of  wines  and  spirits,  you  understand? 
You  will  tell  me  that?" 

The  "commercial"  flung  back  the  lid  of  the 
trunk,  straightened  himself  stiffly,  as  many  men 
past  their  fifties  do  after  stooping,  and  leaned 
against  the  desk.  "People  like  ourselves,"  he 
observed  cryptically,  "are  liable  to  misfortunes. 
You  have  been  lucky,  but  there  are  times  when 
some  of  us  disappear  from  pleasant  society.  You 
understand?  Generally,  one  emerges  with  addi- 
tional knowledge.  One  has,  it  might  be  said,  been 
admitted  into  a  kind  of  freemasonry." 

Van  Langenberg  nodded  under  standingly.  "  So ! 
You  have  been  in  'klink,'"  he  said;  "and  some 
one  spoke  to  you  of  me  there. " 

1 '  You  state  it  brutally .  But  you  are  more  or  less 
right.  I  admit  I  have  heard  your  name  mentioned 
when  I  was  not,  perhaps,  a  free  agent. " 

"His  name?" 

1 '  Names — again  ? ' ' 

"Ach!  Gott!  Show  me  your  tuppenny -ha* 
penny  stationery.  And  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will 
pay  for  it."  Van  Langenberg  removed  his  spec- 
tacles and  wiped  them,  sighing  resignedly.  His 
whole  manner  was  one  of  complete  capitulation. 

"You  will  pay  me  three  thousand  guineas  in 
English  money,"  the  "commercial"  replied  deci- 


Van  Langenberg  195 

sively.  "  And  as  I  do  not  expect  you  to  have  Bank 
of  England  notes,  I  will  take  a  draft  on  your  own 
bank — payable  to  bearer." 

"Boof !  You  want  me  to  buy  the  Crown  jewels 
from  the  Tower  of  London.     Ta,  ta,  ta!" 

"It  is  possible,  some  day." 

"You  are  mad.  Try  to  think  in  German 
pfennigs,  then  some  day,  perhaps,  we  can  do  busi- 
ness together." 

"I  never  haggle." 

"Ah,  dear,  you  are  angry  with  me,  because  I 
was  careful.     But  I  am  a  nervous  man." 

"I  have  charged  extra  for  your  caution  in  the 
bill.  It  will  teach  you  to  be  more  polite.  You 
should  remember  you  live  by  us  'travellers.'" 

Abruptly  turning  away  and  stooping  over  the 
open  trunk,  the  "commercial"  pulled  out  and 
placed  upon  the  floor  near  him  a  varied  assortment 
of  small  articles  that  might  possibly  be  in  request 
in  an  office,  a  few  packages  of  cheap  stationery, 
and  half  a  dozen  ledgers  of  different  sizes.  It  was 
a  passable  sample  lot.  Pointing  to  the  stationery, 
the  "commercial"  remarked: 

"That  will  satisfy  your  clerk.  I  suppose  he  is 
not " 

"No!"  Van  Langenberg  interrupted  quickly; 
"that  young  man  knows  nothing.     Did  you  not 


196  Van  Langenberg 

hear  me  tell  him  to  go  home  to  his  wife?  Yes, 
I  will  take  it;  and  I  will  take  also  the  ledgers;  and 
he  will  think  I  am  a  weak  old  fool  and  tell  all  the 
other  clerks  in  the  Ziegelstraat.  And  it  will  be 
one  more  laugh  at  that  silly  old  Van  Langenberg, 
whose  business  is  always  going  to  smash — to- 
morrow." 

He  chuckled ;  then,  his  interest  suddenly  aroused 
at  the  sight  of  a  long,  cylindrical  package  of  charts 
which  the  "commercial"  was  unrolling,  he  de- 
manded :  ' '  Hey !     What  have  you  got  there  ? ' ' 

"Charts,  to  begin  with,"  replied  the  other 
curtly.  He  went  on  quickly  unrolling,  until  he 
came  to  a  core  wrapped  in  brown  paper.  Ripping 
away  the  paper,  he  began  unrolling  again  with 
more  care. 

"Pictures!"  Van  Langenberg  exclaimed,  in 
derision. 

There  were  three  of  them.  The  "commercial" 
let  two  slide  gently  to  the  floor,  the  third  he  spread 
out  upon  the  desk,  placing  ledgers  upon  the  cor- 
ners to  keep  it  flat.  Van  Langenberg  stood  up 
and  bent  over  the  oil  painting ;  then,  with  a  gasp,  he 
almost  fell  back  into  his  chair. 

"Gott!  Gott  in  Himmel'"  he  croaked.  He 
stared  again  at  the  picture. 

"A  'Titian,'"  the    "commercial"  pronounced 


Van  Langenberg  197 

composedly.  "You  can  see  for  yourself.  You 
are  as  good  a  judge  as  any  man  living,  I  was  told. " 

Van  Langenberg  glared  at  him.  "The  others! 
the  others!"  he  demanded  hoarsely. 

The  "commercial"  spread  another  canvas  upon 
the  first.  "  A  '  Rembrandt,' "  he  stated  carelessly. 
"The  same  remarks  apply  to  this  one." 

The  Dutchman  stared  at  it.  "The  other!" 
he  almost  shouted. 

The  last  picture  was  a  small  one,  a  "  Watteau" ; 
one  of  that  painter's  daintiest. 

Van  Langenberg  gave  it  but  one  glance,  then 
with  an  extravagant  gesture,  he  flung  up  his  arms 
and  rushed  down  the  room  like  a  man  demented. 
Coming  to  the  alcove,  he  savagely  snatched  aside 
the  curtains  and  stood  gazing  through  the  window 
at  the  lights  twinkling  mistily  on  the  far  side  of 
the  canal. 

In  a  few  moments  he  returned  to  his  chair.  He 
appeared  to  have  recovered  somewhat  his  self-con- 
trol, but  traces  of  intense  excitement  were  still  vis- 
ible.    His  cheeks,  usually  pink,  were  now  carmine. 

"Ach!"  he  blurted  out  with  assumed  rage. 
"Copies!  You  bring  me  copies.  It  is  enough  to 
make  me  mad.     To  give  me  all  this  trouble " 

"None  of  that  nonsense,"  the  "commercial" 
said  in  tones  that  brought  the  Dutchman  up,  as 


198  Van  Langenberg 

sailors  say,  "all  standing.' '  "You  know  they  are 
not  copies." 

11 1  know — "  Van  Langenberg  rapped  back,  then 
checked  himself,  and  added,  "what  I  know." 

"Among  other  things,  you  know  they  alone  are 
worth  to  you  what  I  ask.  But  I  am  fair.  You  run 
a  big  risk  and  expense  in  finding  a  market  forthem." 

1 '  The  pictures  alone !     You  have  more  ? ' ' 

For  answer,  the  "commercial"  again  stooped 
over  his  trunk,  and,  bringing  out  a  number  of  stout 
cardboard  boxes,  he  placed  them  upon  the  desk. 
Opening  them  with  deft  fingers,  and  flinging  the 
empty  boxes  and  their  cotton-wool  and  tissue- 
paper  packing  to  the  floor,  he  arranged  the  con- 
tents of  each  in  turn  before  Van  Langenberg,  who, 
as  he  examined  and  pushed  away  each  article 
separately,  kept  up  a  running  commentary  con- 
sisting of  the  one  ejaculation:  "Devil!" 

There  were  pieces  of  exquisite  porcelain,  bejewel- 
led snuff-boxes,  miniatures,  jewel-cases,  rings  of 
historic  interest,  modern  rings,  diamond  buckles; 
in  short,  a  priceless  collection. 

Having  emptied  all  the  boxes,  the  "commercial" 
turned  away,  and,  extracting  from  a  chamois- 
leather  belt  next  to  his  skin  a  magnificent  necklace 
of  large,  even-sized  pearls,  he  added  it  to  the  collec- 
tion upon  the  desk. 


Van  Langenberg  199 

"Three  thousand  English  guineas,"  he  quoted, 
in  "take-it -or- leave-it"  tones,  seating  himself  for 
the  first  time  during  the  interview.  He  sat  stiffly 
upright,  with  his  hands  across  his  knees,  elbows 
outwards,  after  the  manner  of  heavily  built, 
aggressive  men. 

Van  Langenberg  leaned  on  his  elbows  over  the 
desk,  his  face  between  his  palms ;  he  appeared  to  be 
calculating  the  value  of  the  articles  before  him. 
As  a  matter  of  tact,  he  did  not  even  see  them.  He 
was  thinking  deeply — furiously. 

The  "commercial"  yawned  with  noisy  vulgarity, 
and  put  one  hand  into  his  side  coat  pocket.  "  Time 
is  getting  on,"  he  remarked  huskily.  "It  would 
be  a  pity  if  the  document  I  spoke  of  were  read  by 
the  wrong  person." 

"Yes,"  mumbled  the  Dutchman  without  stir- 
ring; "that  would  be  a  pity.  But  it  I  could  say  to 
myself,  'There  is  no  document' — if  I  could  say, 
'This  is  a  trap ' " — he  paused,  and  one  hand  dropped 
carelessly  upon  his  lap. 

"In  case  you  are  a  fool,"  the  "commercial" 
put  in,  yawning  again,  "you  should  know  I  have 
a  revolver  in  my  pocket ;  and  it  is  pointing  at  you. 
So,  if  you  open  that  drawer  again,  bring  out 
nothing  heavier  than  a  cheque-book." 

Van  Langenberg  turned  round.     For  a  nervous 


200  Van  Langenberg 

man  he  was  singularly  cool.  "Ach!"  he  said 
listlessly.  "But  I  know  that.  Presently  I  will 
give  you  a  cheque.  You  have  quoted — I  say  it — a 
fair  price.  You  are  wise.  I  give  you  some  credit, 
now — plenty  of  it.  You  are  wonderful.  But, 
attention!  my  German,"  he  went  on  briskly. 
"I  will  make  it  four  thousand  English  guineas  if 
you  will  answer  me  this:  Who  are  you?" 

The  "commercial"  consulted  his  watch. 

"I  can  stay,  at  the  most,  ten  minutes  longer," 
he  announced. 

Van  Langenberg  sighed.  Opening  his  drawer, 
he  produced  a  cheque-book,  and,  after  making 
a  few  rapid  calculations,  wrote  quickly.  Then, 
tearing  off  the  cheque,  he  pushed  it  fretfully  to  the 
corner  of  the  desk.  The  "commercial"  stretched 
out  a  hand  for  the  cheque,  glanced  at  it,  then  folded 
it  up  and  tucked  it  into  a  pocket  of  his  waistcoat. 

"I  shall  present  this  to-morrow  afternoon,"  he 
said,  standing  up.  "You  had  better  notify  the 
bank  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

It  is  curious;  but  he  seemed  to  have  absolute 
confidence  that  the  cheque  would  be  met.  The 
Ziegelstraat  would  have  jeered  at  him  for  a  gullible 
fool. 

Van  Langenberg  nodded  assent  and  rose  from 
his  chair.     "Now  we  will  drink  lager,"  he  said, 


Van  Langenberg  201 

in  his  every-day,  pleasant  voice.  "No?  A  Ger- 
man— and  not  drink  lager?  But  we  part  friends, 
hey?  You  will  come  again?  Yes,  we  will  do  good 
business  together." 

"Yes,  I  will  come  again,"  the  other  agreed 
decisively.  With  a  wave  of  his  arm  he  indicated 
his  samples  littered  about  on  the  floor.  "I  shall 
leave  the  trunk  and  those  things,"  he  added; 
"they  might  attract  notice  in  an  empty  street." 

Van  Langenberg  nodded.  "Attention!"  he 
said  sharply.  "Before  you  come  again,  you  will 
write  to  me — just  an  ordinary  business  letter  about 
anything.  But  you  will  put  a  small  cross  in  the 
bottom  left-hand  corner.  Two  days  after  the  date 
in  your  letter,  at  ten  o'clock  at  night  sharp,  I  shall 
look  through  the  little  window  behind  you  into 
the  alley  which  runs  down  to  the  canal.  And  if  I 
hear  a  cough — like  this — so — I  will  find  a  way  to 
let  you  in.  You  understand?  Very  well.  Now 
I  will  tell  you;  I  have  changed  my  mind.  I  like 
you.  You  are  wonderful.  We  will  do  big — very 
big  business  together.  Now,  go;  and  remember  to 
come  again." 

His  face  beaming  with  pleasure,  the  Dutchman 
tripped  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  conducted  the 
"commercial"  downstairs  and  into  the  street. 

A  few  moments  later  Van  Langenberg  hurried 


202  Van  Langenberg 

back  to  his  sanctum,  ran  to  the  window  over  the 
Ziegelstraat  and,  getting  behind  the  curtain, 
watched  his  visitor's  ungainly  figure  stumbling 
away  over  the  cobble-stones. 

When  the  man  had  gone  out  of  sight,  Van 
Langenberg  came  and  stood  by  the  desk,  tapping 
restlessly  upon  it  with  his  fingers  and  staring  at  the 
array  of  valuable  articles  he  had  purchased.  His 
face  was  very  serious. 

"Ten  thousand  million  devils !"  he  muttered. 
"  They  are  the  same.  To-night  I  have  paid  a 
second  time  for  them. 

"Gott  in  Himmel!  Why  did  I  not  put  a  bullet 
through  him,  like  that  police  spy,  Manton?  Ach! 
but  he  is  not  a  spy,  this  one.  But  who  told  him  of 
this  place?  There  is  not  one  of  our  clients  in 
'klink' — no,  not  one.  He  lied  to  me.  I  do  not 
like  it.  He  reminds  me  of  some  one.  Ach!  who 
is  it  he  reminds  me  of?  He  beat  me.  I,  Van 
Langenberg,  have  been  spiflicated.  But  he  will 
come  again,  and  then  we  shall  see." 

Suddenly  the  Dutchman  found  humour  in  the 
situation.  "But  there  is  another  who  has  been 
spiflicated !"  he  exclaimed,  striking  the  desk  with 
his  fist. 

"He  is  not  laughing  now,  I  wager.  He  must 
return  here.     I  must  send  a  cable  to  him.     Ach! 


Van  Langenberg  203 

but  it  is  funny — very  funny.  .  .  .  And  now  I  have 
made  myself  thirsty,  and  will  go  upstairs  and  drink 
lager." 

He  extinguished  the  light,  and,  picking  his  way 
across  the  room  like  a  cat  in  the  dark,  he  proceeded 
through  the  door  in  the  angle  and  went  up  to  his 
private  apartments. 

As  a  matter  of  chronological  interest,  it  may  be 
stated,  while  Van  Langenberg  in  Rotterdam  was 
quenching  his  thirst  in  his  favourite  beverage,  in 
Paris  a  certain  rosy-cheeked  little  police  agent  was 
perpetrating  one  of  his  harmless  little  inaccuracies. 

" Monsieur,' '  he  was  saying  to  his  chief,  "I 
should  be  deeply  grateful  for  leave  of  absence." 

"Why?" 

"  My  health  has  not  been  quite  as  I  could  desire 
of  late."  M.  Faverol  sighed  very  creditably,  and 
strove  to  appear  dejected. 

His  chief  gave  him  a  sharp  look.  He  was  an 
overworked  man,  and  he  had  no  use  for  subtlety. 
"Sit  down,"  he  said  curtly.  "I  have  something 
to  say  to  you.  We  can  return  to  the  subject  of 
your — er — health  later.  I  have  been  trying  to 
balance  the  merits  of  two  men — yourself  and  M. 
Lavigne. 

"Your  appearance  here  is  fortunate,  for  it  has 


204  Van  Langenberg 

decided  me.  You  are  a  little  younger  than 
Lavigne,  and  I  understand  even  he  has  not  a  more 
extensive  knowledge  of  the  features,  habits,  and 
present  whereabouts  of  most  of  the  big  thieves  of 
the  Continent  and  England  than  yourself." 

Faverol  bowed.  It  was  said  he  could  achieve  a 
graceful  bow  kneeling,  even. 

"You  know,  of  course,"  his  chief  went  on,  "  that 
though  we  succeed  very  often  in  laying  these 
fellows  by  the  heels,  we  fail  in  many  cases,  and 
those  the  most  important.  Take  the  case  of  those 
three  paintings  stolen  from  the  Louvre  about  a 
year  ago " 

"'English  Harry,'"  observed  Faverol. 

"  Precisely.  I  have  been  told  so.  But  we 
have  never  been  able  to  prove  it.  And  he  is  living 
at  ease  in " 

"In  Jermyn  Street,  London." 

1 '  Precisely ;  and  yet  we  cannot  touch  him.  Then 
there  was  the  English  affair — the  Polignac  neck- 
lace, stolen  from  the  Duchess  of  Belward,  after  she 
came  away  from  the  State  ball.  I  understand 
Scotland  Yard  suspects  a  Frenchman  of  that ;  but 
in  this  case  also  we  are  stalemated.  You  play 
chess?    Very  well,  then  you  understand. 

"In  these  two  unsatisfactory  cases,  as  in  many 
others  equally  unsatisfactory,  and  extending  back 


Van  Langenberg  205 

over  a  dozen  years,  we  have,  perhaps,  been  able  to 
point  to  the  perpetrators  of  the  robberies,  we  have 
even  brought  some  of  them  to  justice ;  but  we  have 
failed  to  recover  the  stolen  property. 

"Running  through  all  our  success  there  is  an 
undercurrent  of  failure,"  continued  the  chief.  "I 
speak,  as  it  were,  for  the  police  of  Europe. 

"Others  and  myself  have  often  discussed  this 
and  we  have  long  been  of  the  opinion  that  the 
property  never  recovered  has  passed  through  the 
hands  of  one  man,  or,  it  may  be,  two  acting  in 
partnership.  Everything  points  to  an  astound- 
ingly  clever  organisation,  which — er — baffles  us 
completely.  Possibly  you  have  heard  whispers 
on  this  very  subject?  Yes?  Then  we  can  now 
return  to  your  health." 

"Monsieur,  my  health  is  excellent,"  said 
Faverol. 

"Indeed?     You  have  made  a  quick  recovery." 

"Thanks  to  Monsieur.  But,  if  I  may  explain,  I 
should  have  spoken  more  openly.  Since  the  affair 
of  the  Beche  Noire,  I  am  not  popular  in  certain 
quarters,  Monsieur.  Many  things  came  out  at  the 
trial  of  the  porter  who  set  the  cafe  in  a  blaze  which 
were  better  kept  quiet.  And  I  think — seriously, 
Monsieur — my  health  would  be  benefited  by  leave 
of  absence  for  several  months." 


206  Van  Langenberg 

"  You!  a  timid  man?" 

"Monsieur  has  my  record.  It  is  not  that 
of  a  coward.  I  would  merely  run  away  to  fight 
again."  It  is  to  be  feared  Faverol  was  again 
suppressing  the  exact  truth. 

"H'm.  Perhaps  you  are  right.  But  I  warn 
you  the  work  I  propose  giving  you  is  likely  to  be 
extremely  dangerous. — You  knew  Manton?" 

"  Intimately,  Monsieur.  We  often  collaborated.' ' 

"H'm.  Have  you  any  idea  what  has  become 
of  him?" 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  for  a  twelvemonth,  Mon- 
sieur. His  disappearance  has  caused  us — his 
colleagues — much  perplexity." 

The  big  man  looked  gloomy.  "  I  fear  he  is  dead. 
We  set  him  the  same  task  as " 

"I  am  not  afraid,  Monsieur,"  Faverol  inter- 
rupted quietly. 

"Good.  Then  these  are  your  instructions:  You 
are  to  discover  the  organisation  I  spoke  about  just 
now. — Do  you  understand  me?" 

"Perfectly,  Monsieur." 

"It  is  vague  in  the  extreme,"  his  chief  went  on 
in  almost  petulant  tones,  "but  in  one  way,  perhaps, 
poor  Manton's  fate  may  afford  a  clue.  It  is  the 
only  assistance  I  can  give  you.  Soon  after  the 
Louvre  affair  a  body  was  found  floating  in  a  canal 


Van  Langenberg  207 

in  Rotterdam.  It  had  a  bullet  wound  through 
the  heart.  From  information  sent  us,  we  have 
reason  to  believe  that  body  was  Manton's.  There- 
fore, go  to  Rotterdam.     You  speak  Dutch?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur. ' '  Faverol  had  a  smattering  of 
several  European  languages,  but  he  spoke  not  only 
Dutch,  but  English,  fluently.  He  had  learned  the 
value  of  study  early,  for  he  was  an  ambitious  little 
man. 

"Have  I  carte  blanche?"  he  inquired. 

His  chief  nodded.  "  You  can  regard  yourself  as 
being  on  leave — indefinitely,"  he  said  in  a  tired 
voice.  "  Money  you  can  obtain  through  the  usual 
channels.  That  will  do.  And  good  luck  go  with 
you !"  He  held  out  his  hand  for  Faverol  to  shake. 
It  was  a  signal  honour. 

Faverol  bowed  himself  out,  blushing. 

"Phoo!"  he  observed  to  himself,  as  he  tripped 
down  the  stairs,  "  this  organisation  affair  is  a  mare's 
nest.  But  I  have  no  objection  to  a  little  jaunt 
to  Rotterdam — by  way  of  England." 

He  was  justified  in  feeling  elated.  Who  would 
not  be,  with  indefinite  leave  and  all  expenses 
paid?  He  glanced  at  his  watch.  It  was  eleven 
o'clock. 

About  that  time,  in  a  certain  country  house 
in  England,  a  somewhat  dull-witted,  time-expired 


208  Van  Langenberg 

soldier-man  was  beginning  to  account  to  his 
master  for  a  depleted  treasure  chamber.  Unlike 
Van  Langenberg,  Sebastien  Gautil  was  quite 
unable  to  find  the  slightest  humour  in  the 
situation. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  PARTNERS 

QUNDAY  night;  and  the  Ziegelstraat  desolate 
^  in  pouring  rain,  its  cobble-stones  gleaming 
with  an  unwonted  cleanliness  in  the  wan  light  of 
the  sparsely  distributed  street  lamps.  Opposite 
Van  Langenberg's  office  a  drain  had  become  clogged ; 
and  an  extensive  pool,  fed  by  the  dirty  yellow 
rivulets  purling  along  in  the  gutters,  overflowed 
steadily  down  the  little  alley  leading  to  the  canal. 

Just  as  a  neighbouring  clock  proclaimed  the 
hour  of  nine,  a  man,  enveloped  in  glistening  black 
oilskins,  sou'wester,  and  rubber  knee-boots,  turned 
swiftly  into  the  Ziegelstraat  at  its  western  end. 
He  strode  along  at  a  great  pace,  and,,  coming  to 
the  pool,  without  pausing  to  consider  its  depth, 
splashed  deliberately  through,  and  disappeared 
into  the  gloom  of  the  alley. 

After  proceeding  a  few  yards  he  stopped,  and, 
looking  up  towards  Van  Langenberg's  little  window, 
coughed  once;  then  twice,  quickly.  Then  he 
14  209 


210  The  Partners 

walked  on  leisurely,  until  his  hand,  feeling  along 
the  right  wall,  rested  upon  a  door. 

Fifteen  years  ago  the  door  had  been  a  side 
entrance  leading,  by  means  of  a  narrow  flight  of 
stairs,  to  the  first  floor  of  the  warehouse ;  but  Van 
Langenberg,  on  embarking  upon  his  shipping 
agency  business,  with  considerable  ostentation  had 
the  stair-head  bricked  up  and  the  alley  door  barred, 
apparently  for  ever.  Nevertheless,  hardly  had  the 
stranger  touched  it  when  the  door  opened  in- 
wards noiselessly.  At  once  he  slipped  through 
into  the  pitch  blackness  inside,  turned  to  the 
right,  and  mounted  without  hesitation,  taking 
the  precaution,  however,  to  count  the  stairs. 

A  wise  precaution,  for  the  seventh  step  was  miss- 
ing altogether,  leaving  a  gap  which  must  inevita- 
bly have  proved  disastrous  to  the  ignorant  or 
unwary. 

On  reaching  the  blank  wall  at  the  top  the 
stranger  turned  to  the  left,  and  with  outstretched 
hands  took  four  paces  into  Van  Langenberg's 
sanctum.  Finding  the  edge  of  the  desk,  he  stood 
perfectly  still,  as  if  he  knew  what  was  expected  of 
him.  Presently  some  one  followed  him  into  the 
room.  There  was  the  quiet  click  of  a  well-oiled 
spring  lock;  then  suddenly,  from  the  direction  of 
the  glass-fronted  cupboard,  the  rays  from  a  bull's 


The  Partners  211 

eye  lantern  sought  for  and  rested  inquiringly  upon 
his  face. 

"Good!"  said  the  voice  of  Van  Langenberg,  in 
tones  of  cheerful  satisfaction.  The  light  travelled 
across  the  room  and  fell  upon  a  couple  of  hooks  on 
the  door  leading  to  the  clerk's  office  on  the  ground 
floor.  "Hang  your  wet  oilskins  up  there,"  Van 
Langenberg  went  on  volubly.  "Ach!  what  a 
terrible  night!  But  very  convenient,  hey?  Your 
boots,  too;  they  are  better  left  down  here;  so  wet! 
They  would  spoil  my  carpet.  I  will  provide 
slippers.  Good!  Beware  of  those  cases.  Now 
we  will  go  up  to  the  warmth,  where  there  is  coffee 
and  a  little  excellent  cognac,  all  ready.  Ach! 
what  a  night!" 

Chattering  unceasingly,  he  opened  the  door  in 
the  angle  of  the  wall,  and,  preceded  by  his  silent 
visitor,  ascended  a  curving  flight  of  stairs  and 
passed  through  yet  another  door  at  the  top  into 
his  private  apartment. 

Contrary  to  the  opinion  of  the  Ziegelstraat, 
there  was  little  of  the  squalid  garret  in  Van  Langen- 
berg's  private  quarters.  One  room  only — but 
what  a  room !     Incongruous  astonishing,  luxurious. 

Mingling  with  the  fragrance  of  tobacco  smoke 
(which  spoke  volumes  for  Van  Langenberg 's  taste 
in  cigars)  an  appetising  odour  of  coffee  emanated 


212  The  Partners 

from  a  dilapidated  old  pot  perched  upon  an  anthra- 
cite stove  occupying  the  centre  of  the  apartment. 

Two  very  deep,  comfortable-looking  red-leather 
arm-chairs  had  been  drawn  up  near  the  stove;  and, 
between  them,  a  low  octagonal  inlaid  table,  of 
Eastern  origin,  bore  two  dainty  china  cups  and 
saucers,  liqueur  glasses  with  peculiar  opaque  stems, 
a  remarkably  handsome  cut-glass  brandy  decanter, 
and  a  cedarwood  cabinet  containing  cigars  and 
cigarettes. 

In  incongruous  juxtaposition  with  these  was  a 
common,  "sleever"  tumbler,  which  exhibited 
traces  of  having  recently  been  used  for  the  con- 
sumption of  beer.  A  tall  brass  standard  lamp 
stood  behind  the  chairs,  its  light  pleasantly  diffused 
by  a  dark  green  silk  shade.  The  carpet  was  a 
superb  Turkey,  with  an  extremely  heavy  pile. 
Nevertheless,  a  square  had  been  wantonly  cut  from 
it  in  the  way  of  the  stove. 

A  Japanese  screen  concealed  a  couch  evidently 
used  as  a  bed,  at  the  head  of  which  was  a  large  steel 
safe;  at  the  foot,  a  low,  carved  oak  press.  Tapes- 
tries draped  the  four  walls  completely,  and  hid  from 
view  the  one  window  which  overlooked  the  canal. 

Van  Langenberg's  visitor  went  straight  to  tne 
stove,  and  having  half  filled  a  cup  with  coffee, 
flooded  it  with  brandy.     Then,  lighting  a  cigar  he 


The  Partners  213 

sank  heavily  into  the  nearest  chair  and  stretched 
out  his  stockinged  feet  to  the  warmth. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  inclined  to  stoutness  of  the 
flabby  kind.  His  face,  puzzling,  but  not  altogether 
unprepossessing,  was  spoilt  by  an  over-full  jet- 
black  beard  and  moustache,  which  a  close  inspec- 
tion would  have  proved  to  be  false.  He  had  that 
heavy,  dull  appearance  which  occasionally  con- 
ceals a  very  powerful  brain.  The  skin  was  sallow. 
His  hands  were  the  worst  part  of  him;  some 
hyper-sensitive  people  would  have  said  that 
the  thumbs  made  them  shudder.  Now  that  he 
had  discarded  his  oilskins,  his  garb  was  of  the  kind 
that,  rightly  or  wrongly,  one  is  apt  to  associate 
with  Nonconformity  and  a  conscience.  In  age 
he  might  have  been  forty-five. 

As  he  leant  back,  alternately  sipping  his  coffee 
and  smoking,  and  staring  straight  in  front  of  him 
at  nothing,  he  appeared  to  be  in  a  disturbed  and 
rather  bad-tempered  frame  of  mind;  and  he  was 
barely  civil  to  Van  Langenberg  when  that  cheerful 
robin  of  a  man  brought  him  a  pair  of  capacious  fur- 
lined  "foot-cosies." 

His  visitor's  behaviour  seemed  to  be  causing  the 
little  Dutchman  no  little  amusement.  He  grinned 
covertly  as  he  chose  a  cigar  with  great  care. 
Settling  himself  comfortably  in  the  vacant  chair, 


214  The  Partners 

for  a  few  moments  he  blew  smoke  rings,  lost  in  a 
quizzical  contemplation  of  the  ceiling,  which,  to 
be  truthful,  was  a  reproach  to  the  rest  of  the  room, 
for  it  sadly  needed  a  coat  of  whitewash.  At  last, 
however,  the  continued  silence  of  his  companion 
seemed  to  irritate  him. 

"Well,"  Van  Langenberg  began  pertly,  in 
French:  "So  you  received  my  cable  concerning  the 
shipment  of  Bols — and  you  are  here.  Peste  !  but 
are  you  not  curious  to  learn  why  I  sent  for  you? 
Ach! "  he  went  on,  relapsing  into  his  own  language, 
"  I  have  known  you,  now,  for — Gott !  I  forget  how 
long — certainly  we  have  been  partners  for  fifteen 
years.     But  still  you  are  a  mystery  to  me. " 

"Bah!"  growled  the  other,  "leave  out  that 
nonsense.  Come  to  business.  And  say  what  you 
have  got  to  say  in  French.  I  hate  your  Dutch 
lingo.  And  when  you  have  finished,"  he  added 
grimly,  "I  will  tell  you  something — very  unpleas- 
ant, too." 

Van  Langenberg  grunted.  "  So ! "  he  mimicked ; 
"very  unpleasant,  hey?  Well,  my  news  also  is 
very  unpleasant.  But  I  laugh — before  you  arrive. 
Perhaps  I  can  guess  your  news,"  he  burst  out 
suddenly,  raising  his  head  and  peering  sideways  at 
his  visitor.  "Now  you  have  arrived,  I  cannot 
laugh.     It   is   a   pity.     Therefore,    tell   me  your 


The  Partners  215 

news  first,  and  I  will  put  the  cap  on  it.  And 
because  it  is  funny,  we  will  then  laugh  together  and 
become  more  sociable." 

Receiving  no  answer,  the  Dutchman  leaned 
over  the  arm  of  his  chair.  "Have  you  disposed 
of  any  of  the  l  stuff '  you  took  away  from  here  last 
time?"  he  inquired,  with  a  jeering  grin  of  triumph 
on  his  face. 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  by  that?" 
returned  the  other,  jerking  himself  upright  and 
glaring  at  Van  Langenberg. 

"  So !  Then  it  was  stolen  from  you.  I  was  right. 
It  is  funny.  Well,  partner,  your  carelessness 
has  cost  us — three — thousand — English — guineas ! 
And,  now,  you  can  guess  why  I  sent  for  you." 
He  sat  well  back  in  his  chair  and  smoked  furiously. 

A  quick  look  of  astounded  comprehension  swept 
over  his  partner's  face.  ' '  They  brought  it  to  you  ?" 
he  almost  shouted. 

Van  Langenberg  nodded  and  made  a  slight 
correction:  "He  brought  it  to  me." 

"He!  Who?  Who  brought  it  to  you?  Why 
the  deuce  can't  you  speak  plainly?" 

"I  do  not  know  who  he  was.  I  wish  I  did.  I 
want  to  know  very  badly." 

"Diablel  A  stranger!  How  in  the  fiend's 
name  does  a  stranger  know  of  this  place?" 


216  The  Partners 

"I  want  to  know  that,  also,"  Van  Langenberg 
replied,  with  an  airy  flourish  of  his  cigar.  "But 
let  us  begin  at  the  very  beginning — at,  shall  we 
call  it,  the  robbery,  hey?  What  do  you  know 
about  that?" 

"Nothing." 

1 '  What !  Nothing  ? ' '  the  Dutchman  interrupted 
chuckling.  "Hein!  but  it  is  funny.  We  are  good 
partners.  We  both  know  nothing.  No  wonder 
we  succeed." 

"Nothing,"  continued  his  partner  savagery, 
disregarding  the  interruption.  "Except  that 
when  I  got — when  I  got  to  the  place  where  I  keep 
my  portion  of  the  stuff  it  had  been  ransacked. 
The  most  valuable  things,  the  most  easily  carried 
off,  had  gone — disappeared." 

"Be  precise.     What  had  gone?" 

"In  detail?" 

"Of  course.  Gliickf  but  we  must  see  if  they 
have  all  come  back  to  us,  must  we  not?" 

"Teh!  fetch  them  out,  then.  You  have  got 
them,  you  say." 

"I  did  not  say  so,"  Van  Langenberg  retorted. 
"I  have  sent  some  away  already;  the  rest  are 
packed  ready  to  go  in  the  cases.  It  is  possible, 
the  sooner  we  get  rid  of  them  the  better. " 

1 '  You  fear  a  visit  ?     The  police  ? ' ' 


The  Partners  217 

"That,  too,  is  possible;  but  I  do  not  think  so. 
I  will  explain  to  you  why  presently.  Go  on  with 
the  list  and  I  will  tick  them  off  on  my  fingers. " 

"The  three  Louvre  pictures — English  Harry's 
lot,"  his  partner  began. 

"Three." 

"The  Polignac  necklace;  those  four  snuff-boxes ; 
two  miniatures;  nine  rings — the  Anstruther  Col- 
lection haul. ' ' 

"Nineteen." 

"Four  jewel-cases;  a  dozen  more  rings — part 
of  the  Vienna  hotel  lot." 

"Thirty-five." 

"Two  and  a  half  pairs  diamonded  buckles — 
they  left  the  odd  one,  which  I  believe  is  paste; 
and  eleven  pieces  of  porcelain — from  various 
sources.  But  they  were  the  pick  of  the  whole  lot  I 
had." 

"  Forty -nine, "   Van   Langenberg  reckoned  up. 

"That  is  all,"  said  his  partner. 

1 '  Yes.  That  is  all.  I  had  forty-nine.  Now ! ' ' 
the  Dutchman  inquired  anxiously,  "who  knows  of 
this  robbery — outside  yourself,  myself,  and  the 
man  who  brought  the  things  to  me?" 

"As  far  as  I  know,  no  one,"  his  partner  replied, 
stretching  out  a  hand  for  the  coffee-pot.  He  did 
not  meet  Van  Langenberg's  gaze. 


2i  8  The  Partners 

"So!  Then  it  was  done  well — no  fuss — no 
noise?     The   things,   they   just   vanished,   hey?" 

The  other  nodded.  "Only  the  very  smartest  at 
the  business  could  have  done  it  so  cleanly/'  he 
said,  between  sips  of  coffee.  "  Not  a  scratch — not 
a  mark  left  anywhere.  Except  for  the  empty 
picture  frames  you  could  have  sworn  no  one  had 
been  in  the  room." 

"Frames!  You  kept  the  pictures  in  frames!" 
Van  Langenberg  protested,  his  eyes  opening  to 
their  fullest  extent .     ' '  Are  you  mad  ? ' ' 

"  Bah !  Call  them  '  copies,'  and  who  looks  twice 
at  them?  But  none  of  that,  Langenberg.  You 
know  the  rules.  No  interference.  Each  manages 
his  side  of  the  business  in  his  own  way." 

"You  managed  yours  well,  hey?" 

"Keep  your  temper.  Bickering  will  do  no 
good — to  you  certainly ;  you  get  stouter ;  you  drink 
too  much.  The  things  were  taken;  and  that's  an 
end  of  it,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  But  it  is  very 
serious;  very.  Tell  me  about  the  fellow  who 
brought  the  stuff  to  you." 

Van  Langenberg  scowled  at  his  cigar,  pitched  it 
into  the  stove,  and  lighted  another  with  a  finicky 
slowness  that  was  evidently  intended  to  be  exasper- 
ating. But  his  partner  took  absolutely  no  notice ; 
and  presently  the  Dutchman  began. 


The  Partners  219 

"Yes.  It  is  serious.  I  laughed  at  your  being 
robbed  and  the  stuff  brought  a  second  time  to  me, 
because  it  is  funny — very  funny.  It  is  a  very  good 
thing  there  is  something  in  the  affair  to  laugh  at. 
Just  listen  to  me!"  he  went  on,  with  sudden 
vehemence,  swinging  round  in  his  chair.  "I  will 
tell  you  something  which  is  not  funny.  No!  not 
one  jot  of  it !  .  .  .  Some  time  ago,  a  few  days  after 
you  were  here,  a  fellow  poked  himself  into  my 
office  downstairs.  He  said  he  was  a  German 
'traveller' — in  ledgers  and  stationery.  But  he  was 
not  a  German.  No!  Though  he  was  a  good 
imitation — very  good.  When  we  were  alone  in  my 
private  office  my  German  says  to  me:  'You  were 
not  always  in  the  wine  and  spirit  shipping.  You 
used  to  deal  in  other  things,  providing  they  were  of 
value — and  had  been  lost.  You  would  buy  the 
Kohinoor  if  I  brought  to  you.'  He  spoke  just 
like  that:  and  mark  you  his  use  of  the  past  tense, " 
Van  Langenberg  put  in. 

"Now,  I  was  curious  about  this  fellow,  because 
I  did  not  know  him.  I  was  rude  to  him  just  as  I 
know  how.  But,  as  I  waved  my  hands  about,  I 
made  the  old  sign — one  I  used  before  we  became 
partners.  I  did  it — like  this — carelessly — it  might 
have  been  just  a  chance.  He  answered  it.  I  was 
astonished.     But  I  took  no  notice ;  and  I  told  him 


220  The  Partners 

I  wanted  no  ledgers — or  anything;  and,  if  I  did,  I 
would  not  buy  it  from  a  fool  who  came  and  talked 
nonsense  that  I  could  not  understand. 

"He  went  away  without  a  word;  and  I  thought 
I  had  done  with  him.  He  looked  afraid,  as  if  he 
had  made  a  mistake.  But,  no!  Two  days  ago, 
just  as  my  clerk  was  going  to  put  up  the  shutters,  I 
heard  some  one  come  in  and  begin  to  argue.  I  lis- 
tened ;  then  I  went  downstairs ;  and  there  was  my 
German  with  a  trunk — a  big  one — I  have  burnt  it 
since.  I  was  angry ;  but  I  sent  my  clerk  home  to 
his  whe,  and  I  brought  the  other  man  up  to  my 
office.  I  did  not  know  what  to  think ;  but  I  meant 
to  find  out  something — or  that  German  was  going 
to  find  himself  spiflicated  with  a  bullet.  I  tell 
you  I  found  out  nothing.  He  was  not  a  spy,  like 
that  Man  ton.  I  thought  he  was  so — at  first. 
But,  no!     I  can  smell  a  police  agent. 

"This  man  was  in  the  business — genuine — what 
the  English  call  a  'swell  mobsman.'  He  said  he 
had  heard  of  me  in  'klink ' !  Boof !  A  lie !  Remem- 
ber what  I  said  to  you  about  his  using  the  past 
tense.  He  knew  of  me  years  ago.  But  I  forget 
none  of  the  old  ones.  But  who  is  he?  I  do 
not  know.  I  do  not  like  it.  And  I  do  not 
like  him.  He  has  robbed  us  of  three  thousand 
English    guineas.     Well;    that    I    do    not    mind. 


The  Partners  221 

Why?  Because  when  he  finds  he  has  no  trouble 
in  obtaining  the  money,  he  will  come  again,  as  I 
asked  him.  Yes!  He  will  come  once  more. 
After  that  he  will  not  be  a  German — or  anything 
else — and  he  can  take  his  guineas  to  bribe  Old 
Nick  to  give  him  a  cool  place ! 

"  Now  I  have  made  myself  thirsty,  so  I  will  drink 
lager.  That  brandy  will  not  fill  a  hollow  tooth — 
which  I  have  got  in  my  jaws.     No!" 

Van  Langenberg  sprang  to  his  feet  and,  running 
behind  the  screen,  emerged  presently  grasping 
by  their  necks  six  bottles  of  beer,  three  in  each 
hand.  The  Dutchman's  cellar  was  easy  of  access. 
Did  he  wake  in  the  night,  thirsty,  he  had  merely 
to  lean  out  and  thrust  a  hand  under  the  couch. 

His  partner  watched  his  movements  with  dull 
eyes.  "What  was  this  German  like?"  he  asked, 
after  a  short  silence. 

"Like!"  snorted  Van  Langenberg,  clinking  the 
neck  of  an  opened  bottle  against  the  tumbler. 
"Like!  Like  nothing — like  anything.  Young? 
Old?  I  do  not  know.  His  father  the  devil  on 
two  sticks  knows" — he  gulped  down  the  beer  at 
a  draught — "beard  and  moustache — his  own. 
Middle  height ;  thick ;  strong  hands — very ;  walked 
so." 

Van  Langenberg  hunched  his  shoulders  and  gave 


222  The  Partners 

a  distinctly  clever  imitation  of  the  "German 
traveller's"  gait.  "But  it  is  no  good,"  he  added; 
"it  was  all  just  play-acting." 

For  a  long  time  there  was  silence.  The  stove 
began  to  roar,  and  Van  Langenberg  adjusted  the 
draw-plate  with  his  foot.  Then,  having  consumed 
a  second  bottle  of  beer,  he  came  and  stood  opposite 
his  partner. 

"Now  I  have  had  some  lager,"  he  remarked, 
peering  into  his  empty  glass,  "I  feel  better;  and  I 
will  tell  you  something.  That  German — do  you 
know  who  he  reminded  me  of?  No?  Peste! 
you  are  silent  to-night,  partner.  Never  mind.  I 
will  do  the  talking.  Swallow  this,"  he  blurted 
out,  raising  his  glance  swiftly.  "He  reminded 
me  of  .  .  .  Andre  Gaspard!" 

"Bah!"  ejaculated  his  partner.  But,  never- 
theless, his  hand  shook,  as  he  fumbled  his  cigar 
somehow  between  his  teeth.  "  Bah ! "  he  repeated. 
"  He  is  as  good  as — as  mutton  by  now.  A  man  is 
not  a  man  after  twenty  years  of — of  out  there." 

"  No, "  Van  Langenberg  retorted,  in  a  huff;  "per- 
haps he  is  a  devil.  You  say  '  Bah ! '  but  you  are 
shaking  in  your  skin  at  the  very  name  of  Gaspard. 
I  do  not  say  '  Bah ! '  but  I  shake  for  no  one.  That 
is  the  difference. 

"But  if  I  had  done  what  you  did  for  Gaspard — 


The  Partners  223 

and  the  other  two — then,  perhaps,  I  should  shake. 
Yes,  for  I  believe  Gaspard  is  capable  of  escaping 
from  New  Caledonia  after  fifty  years  of  it. 

"And  when  he  comes  he  will  bring  his  two  slaves 
— the  man  who  called  himself  Kit  Polliter,  and 
Jean,  who  was  always  to  us  'the  Rat.'  And  you 
will  be  lucky  if  'the  Rat'  is  the  first  to  find  you; 
for  he  will  kill  you  quick — not  just  split  your  little 
finger  again  with  his  knife.  Polliter — boof!  He 
was  '  nothing.'  But  that  Gaspard !  Yes — you  just 
pray  'the  Rat'  comes  first.  So  I  give  you  the 
warning,  friend  Courtois.  Swallow  it,  or  choke 
over  it — please  yourself.  You  make  me  angry, 
you!  And  I  say  more  than  I  mean.  But  with 
your  bah,  bah,  bah !  you  make  me  sick. " 

Fuming  with  rage,  Van  Langenberg  pivoted 
round,  and  made  a  savage  onslaught  on  another 
bottle.     Then  he  flung  himself  into  his  chair  again. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?"  the  tall  man  asked 
calmly,  after  a  long  silence. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?"  rapped  back  Van 
Langenberg. 

His  partner  emitted  two  or  three  dense  clouds 
of  smoke,  then:  "It  only  makes  me  come  a  little 
sooner  than  I  intended — to  a  decision  I  have  had  in 
my  mind  for  some  time  past,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Ach!     Decisions — always  your  decisions!" 


224  The  Partners 

"We  must  give  up  the — business.  There  has 
been  a  leak  somewhere.  It  had  to  come.  But  we 
cannot  afford  to  disregard  it.  It  breaks  our  run 
of  success.  As  for  your  suggestion ' ' — he  paused — 
"I  do  not  believe" — again  he  paused — "I  mean 
your  suggestion  about  Gaspard  is  nonsense,  sheer 
nonsense."  His  words  seemed  to  come  with 
extreme  difficulty. 

Van  Langenberg  grunted ;  but  as  his  next  words 
proved,  it  was  evident  that  he  was  not  only  relieved 
by  what  his  partner  had  said,  but  was  weather- 
cocking  round  to  good  humour  again.  Perhaps, 
each  having  the  same  solution  of  the  difficulty  in 
his  mind,  each  had  hesitated  to  propose  it,  each 
fearing  how  the  momentous  proposal  of  a  dis- 
solution of  partnership  would  be  received. 

"So  you  think  that,"  Van  Langenberg  said  at 
last.  "Very  good.  But  as  to  going  out  of  busi- 
ness, I  agree.  It  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  sent 
for  you.  So  we  agree — as  we  always  do — in  the 
end.     Therefore  we  have  succeeded. 

"It  has  been  a  long  run,"  he  went  on  reminis- 
cently,  "and  lucky.  Do  you  remember  how  that 
fop  of  a  fellow  Gaspard  used  to  prate  of  luck? 
Himmel!  he  made  me  sick.  Well,  his  luck,  with  a 
little  assistance  from  you,  hey?  took  him  to  the 
other  side  of  the  world.     Perhaps  it  passed  to  us. 


The  Partners  225 

But  I  am  getting  tired  of  it.  It  has  been  a  good 
game,  and  an  easy  one  to  win.  I  could  roll  on  my 
carpet  and  hurt  myself  with  laughing  when  I 
think  how  we  have  fooled  the  police  of  all  Europe. 

"  Sometimes,  when  I  have  been  drinking  up  here 
all  by  myself,  I  tell  myself  it  would  be  funny  to  go 
to  that  old  mule  in  Paris,  who  sent  that  Manton 
to  ferret  us  out,  and  to  offer  to  put  him  on  the 
track  of  all  our  clients.  I  would  do  it,  if  I  wanted 
money.  But  no,  I  will  retire — vanish  into  ob- 
scurity— boof! — grow  a  beard  and  make  myself 
ugly.     Hey?"     The  Dutchman  grinned  broadly. 

His  partner  raised  his  head  and  looked  Van 
Langenberg  steadily  in  the  eyes.  "When  we 
split, "  he  said  with  emphasis,  "  it  is  for  always — we 
never  meet  again." 

"  Tah-de-ti-do ! "  Van  Langenberg  replied,  with 
flippant  rudeness.  "You  need  have  no  fear  of  me 
sitting  in  your  pocket.  I  will  not  bite  your  ankles. 
Besides,  you  are  not  so  pleasant  in  your  manner  as 
to  make  me  want  your  company. 

"In  business  it  is  different;  I  wanted  your 
brains,  and  you  wanted  mine.  Ach!"  he  burst 
out  with  a  sudden  recurrence  of  fury.  "Why  will 
you  always  take  me  for  a  fool?  Have  I  ever  been 
inquisitive  of  your  private  affairs? 

"Outside  our  partnership,  what  do  I  know  of 
15 


226  The  Partners 

you,  Hippolyte  Courtois?  Just  this:  In  London 
you  are  Arthur  Allerton,  who  lends  money.  I 
must  know  that,  because  it  is  necessary  sometimes 
for  me  to  communicate  with  you.  But  for  the  rest 
— where  you  live — married  or  single — nothing! 
And  it  would  be  easy  to  find  out.  But  T  do  not 
want  to. 

"Why?  Because  I  keep  the  rules  ;  and  because 
I  am  not  a  fool.  And  now,  because  I  am  angry 
once  more,  I  will  tell  you  another  reason  why  we 
should  separate.  It  is  just  this.  I  think  your 
brains  are  cracking.  You  have  been  beaten — 
spiflicated.,, 

"So  have  you,  Langenberg."  It  was  a  plain 
statement  of  fact,  made  without  rancour.  Doubt- 
less the  Dutchman's  partner  was  accustomed  to 
these  voluble  diatribes.  "So  have  you,"  he 
repeated,  and  smiled  for  the  first  time,  almost 
indulgently.  He  took  a  cigarette,  and  tapped  it 
upon  his  thumbnail. 

Van  Langenberg's  round  eyes  glittered;  then, 
with  a  grunt,  he  stretched  out  a  hand  for  more 
beer.  His  manner  of  imbibing  was  not  edifying; 
it  erred  on  the  side  of  noisiness,  and  he  had  a 
regrettable  habit  of  wiping  his  lips  upon  his 
sleeve. 

"Hang!"  he  observed.     "You  interrupted  me. 


The  Partners  227 

Well,  it  is  always  the  same.  I  lose  my  temper, 
you  find  yours;  I  laugh,  and  you  are  sour.  .  .  . 
Very  well.  So  was  I  spiflicated.  Perhaps  my 
brains  are  cracking,  too.  I  said  I  was  getting 
tired. 

"But  I  will  tell  you  this.  Before  they  crack,  I 
shall  crack  the  brains  of  the  man  who  beat  me.  If 
I  have  to  wait  here  until  I  rot,  I  will  wait  for  that 
seller  of  ledgers  to  return.  And  I  shall  say  to  him, 
'You  are  the  devil,  or,  perhaps,  you  are  his  son, 
Andre  Gaspard.  I  do  not  care.  But  because 
I  do  not  like  you' — bang,  boof!  I  shall  shoot 
him  dead." 

"Please  yourself  about  that,"  his  partner  said 
indifferently,  consulting  his  watch,  which  was  a 
cheap  one  of  the  type  vulgarly  described  as  a 
"turnip."  "It  is  getting  late.  Are  we  agreed, 
definitely,  about  dissolving  partnership?" 

"Yes"— sulkily. 

"When?     The  sooner  the  better,  to  my  mind." 

"When  we  have  disposed  of  the  stuff  in  hand." 

"You  know  of  nothing  more  likely  to  come  in?" 

"No." 

"Better  accept  no  more." 

"Of  course  not." 

"Very  well.  Do  you  want  me  to  take  anything 
back  with  me?" 


228  The  Partners 

"You  might  be  robbed  again,"  Van  Langenberg 
sneered. 

His  partner  took  no  notice.  "  I  will  get  rid  of  all 
the  'dangerous'  stuff  I  have  in  my  charge, "  he  con- 
tinued, "there  is  not  much.  And  you  will  do  the 
same  with  your  lot.  A  month  to-day  I  shall 
return,  at  the  usual  time,  and  will  finally  square 
accounts.  If  for  any  reason  I  find  I  must  come 
sooner,  I  will  communicate  in  the  usual  way.  Is 
that  understood?" 

Van  Langenberg  nodded. 

"And  if  you  think  it  fair,"  the  other  added, 
rising  to  his  feet  and  flinging  away  his  cigarette 
end,  "you  can  deduct  what  is  right  for  my — well 
— carelessness." 

"No!"  Van  Langenberg  jerked  out.  "No. 
We  are  partners.  I  stand  to  share  all  risks — or 
mistakes.  Besides,"  he  muttered,  staring  at  the 
stove,  "I  was  beaten — I,  Van  Langenberg,  was 
beaten,  also."  He  glanced  at  his  partner  with  a 
quaint  expression  of — was  it  maudlin? — contrition 
in  his  eyes.  "I  have  been  worried,"  he  said 
gruffly.  "For  the  first  time  in  my  life.  And  it 
has  made  me  get  angry — truly  angry — not  play- 
acting.    And,  I  drink  too  much  lager." 

His  partner  walked  slowly  round  the  room.  "  I 
do   not  wish   to  be  inquisitive,"   he   remarl 


The  Partners  229 

coming  to  a  halt  behind  Van  Langenberg's  chair ; 
"but  when  you  go,  what  shall  you  do  with  all  this? 
Some  of  it  is  valuable,  though  difficult  to  get  rid  of 
quietly." 

Van  Langenberg  chuckled.  He  had  drunk  him- 
self into  permanent  good  humour.  "Let  them 
stop, "  he  replied,  without  turning  round.  "They 
are  all  honest ;  therefore  I  can  afford  to  lose  them. 
They  will  give  me  a  good  character,  and  astonish 
the  fools  in  the  Ziegelstraat.  When  I  go,"  he 
rattled  on,  addressing  the  ceiling,  "every  one  shall 
know  it.  You  must  tell  the  world  something  of 
yourself,  or  it  will  find  out  more  than  you  bargain 
for.  I  have  always  told  them  plenty,  so  they  learn 
nothing. 

"When  I  drink  I  become  a  philosopher.  Just 
listen  to  my  plan.  I  will  make  you  laugh,  and  then 
we  will  take  one  drink  together,  and  you  shall  go. 
There  will  come  a  time  when  Van  Langenberg  is 
not  seen,  perhaps  for  a  day,  perhaps  for  longer. 

"Then  my  clerk  shakes  his  silly  head  and  tells 
every  one.  And  by-and-by  they  all  come  upstairs 
whispering  together,  and  they  find  a  letter  on  the 
desk  and  the  trap- door  wide  open. 

"Ach!  very  sad.  And  the  Ziegelstraat  wags 
its  silly  head.  'Poor  old  Van  Langenberg,'  they 
will  say;  'he  drank  too  much  lager.'     But  when 


230  The  Partners 

they  come  up  here,  it  will  be : '  Hein !  the  old  miser ! ' 
And  they  will  drag  the  canal,  and  find — nothing ! — 
except,  perhaps,  that  police  spy,  Man  ton,  and  the 
man  who  insists  on  selling  me  ledgers.  And,  in 
case  he  is  that  Gaspard — come,  partner!  We 
must  drink  to  that " 

Van  Langenberg  slewed  round,  expecting  to  see 
his  partner  standing  behind  his  chair — "Ach! 
where  are  you?  Wait!  I  will  come.  What  an 
unsociable  fellow ! ' ' 

The  little  Dutchman  lurched  to  his  feet,  and 
stumbled  down  the  stairs  after  his  partner,  who  was 
already  putting  on  his  oilskins  in  the  office  below. 
Not  another  word  passed  between  them.  More 
than  half -intoxicated  as  he  was,  Van  Langenberg 
relaxed  none  of  the  usual  precautions;  rather,  he 
exaggerated  them. 

A  few  moments  later  he  let  the  man  whom  he 
had  called  by  the  name  of  Hippolyte  Courtois  out 
into  the  alley  and  the  pouring  rain.  Then  he  went 
back  to  his  private  apartment,  shaking  his  head 
with  a  sadness  born  of  brandy  followed  by  too 
much  lager  beer. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  PICNIC  ON  THE  ISLAND 

A  AT  ARM,  yet  not  too  bright,  the  blue  of  the  sky 
*  *  subdued,  as  it  were,  by  a  film  of  inde- 
terminate cloud;  from  an  angler's  point  of  view, 
the  afternoon  was  almost  perfect.  Numberless 
late  "duns,"  with  tiny,  upright,  gauze  wings, 
floated  down  the  river,  and  the  greedy  glop, 
glop  of  freely  rising  fish  was  enough  to  set  any 
fly -fisherman's  forearm  tingling  with  anticipation. 

But  as  he  pulled  his  boat  steadily  up  reach  after 
reach,  Trevor  Wyer  appeared  to  have  no  inclina- 
tion even  to  thread  the  line  through  the  rings  of  the 
rod  resting  at  an  angle  against  the  rail  of  the  stern 
seat.  His  thoughts  were  elsewhere ;  his  mood  was 
unusually  reflective. 

In  a  hazy  sort  of  way  he  was  just  conscious 
that  his  pipe  was  going  well,  and  that  to  keep 
the  old  warped  boat  straight  entailed  a  slightly 
stronger  stroke  with  the  right  scull  than  with  the 
left;  also  he  felt  a  trifle  lonely,  a  state  of  mind  he 

231 


232  The  Picnic  on  the  Island 

had  of  late,  to  his  surprise,  experienced  more  than 
once. 

Lonely! — near  running  water  with  a  rod  to  his 
hand! 

Chronic  and,  perhaps,  cynically  inclined  anglers 
will  recognise  the  symptoms.  They  are  sadly 
lacking  in  normal  experiences  if  they  do  not. 

"Poor  chap!"  one  can  imagine  these  wiseacres 
saying,  wagging  commiserating  noddles.  "We 
went  through  it  ourselves.  Well,  pink  sun- 
bonnets  come  to  most  of  us  but  once  in  a  lifetime. 
Trout  and  grayling  come  every  year — thank 
heaven!" 

On  rounding  Folley  corner  Wyer  heard  a  loud 
shout,  and,  looking  back  over  his  shoulder,  he 
beheld  Farmer  Pountney,  a  burly  old  man  in 
voluminous  clay-coloured  tweeds  and  gaiters  to 
match,  leaning  against  a  huge  dead  oak  on  the  far 
bank. 

The  oak  formed  a  boundary  mark  of  Pountney' s 
land,  where  it  extended  down  to  the  river.  A 
small,  awkwardly  placed  property,  Penny  Farm 
stretched  in  a  narrow  strip  right  up  to  the  high 
ridge,  the  farm  buildings  themselves  being  tucked 
away  behind  the  belt  of  copse  running  along  the 
river  bank. 

It  was  common  knowledge  that  old  Pountney, 


The  Picnic  on  the  Island         233 

the  present  owner,  found  it  extremely  difficult  to 
keep  a  balance  on  the  peace-of-mind  side  of  his 
banking  account.  Years  ago  Penny  Farm  had 
formed  part  of  the  Janesford  estate;  and  the 
remembrance,  somehow,  caused  no  love  to  be  lost 
between  Pountney  and  Lord  Janesford. 

But  then,  from  the  day  his  young  wife  died,  his 
lordship  had  no  particular  fondness  for  any  one. 
It  is  in  the  nature  of  some  people  to  bear  a  perpet- 
ual grudge  against  the  world  on  account  of  their 
own  private  grief. 

Wyer  sculled  rapidly  across  the  river  and  gave 
the  old  man  a  hearty  greeting.  The  feud  had  not 
descended  to  the  Hon.  Trevor;  indeed,  like  all 
healthy  minded  people,  he  preferred  friendships  to 
enmities — a  characteristic  in  part  responsible,  no 
doubt,  for  his  father's  oft-repeated  indictments  of 
his  son's  "democratic  notions." 

"I'm  middlin',  sir,  thank  'ee, "  Pountney 
responded.  "Like  a  good  many  more,  none  the 
better  for  bein'  born  too  soon,  p'raps.     Sport,  sir?  " 

"Haven't  wet  a  line,"  Wyer  replied  guiltily. 

"H'm.  Not  heedin'  the  trout,  maybe.  After 
the  grayling,  then,  sir?" 

"I  might  have  a  go  at  them  later;  but  I  don't 
think  they're  on  the  shallows  yet." 

The  farmer  appeared  unconvinced,  and  a  net- 


234  The  Picnic  on  the  Island 

work  of  humorous  wrinkles  showed  themselves 
around  his  eyes. 

"Put  a  maggot  on  your  fly,"  he  suggested,  "and 
I  reckon  you'll  find  'em  right  enough,  sir. " 

"Maggot!     You  old  poacher!"  laughed  Wyer. 

11  Poachin'  or  no,  it's  the  way  to  fill  the  pot,  sir." 

"You're  always  thinking  of  the  pot." 

"Can't  see  no  use  in  fishin'  if  I  don't,"  the 
farmer  retorted.  "But  talkin'  of  poachin'  re- 
minds me  of  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  Got 
many  'birds'  your  side  this  time,  sir?" 

"About  the  usual,  I  fancy,"  Wyer  replied. 
"Few  and  wild.  Not  that  I  mind  that  much.  I 
can't  stick  shooting  hand-fed  birds." 

"Well,  I'm  with  you  there,  sir — pot  or  no  pot," 
agreed  the  farmer.  "But  they'll  be  few  enough," 
he  added.  "My  cowman — he  lives  your  side — 
crossed  in  the  punt  a  bit  above,  he  tells  me,  last 
Thursday  night,  was  it?  Aye,  we'd  been  up  with 
a  sick  cow.  Well,  he  co't  sight  of  a  chap  as  he  was 
goin'  home  in  your  woods  by  Seckley — a  little 
feller,  poacher  all  over  him.  I  thought  I'd  best  let 
you  know." 

"Thanks.     A  little  man,  did  you  say?" 

"Ay.  A  weasly  little  snitch  of  a  feller,  my  cow- 
man said." 

1 '  That's  queer.     On  Thursday  night  a  little  chap 


The  Picnic  on  the  Island         235 

ran  across  the  road  in  front  of  my  mare  up  by  the 
lodge  gates.  Nearly  frightened  the  seven  senses 
out  of  her." 

"Did  'ee,  sir?  I'll  back  it's  the  idensical  var- 
mint. Well,  if  I  ketch  holt  on  him  on  my  side  of 
Severn  I  shan't  trouble  the  '  beaks.'  I'll  stop  his 
poachin',  or  my  name  ain't  Poun'ey." 

The  old  man  struck  the  trunk  of  the  oak  a 
resounding  thwack  with  his  cudgel;  he  weighed 
somewhere  about  seventeen  stone,  and  had  a  cer- 
tain reputation  for  administering  summary  justice 
of  his  own. 

Wyer  had  his  own  reasons  for  questioning  the 
term  "poacher"  as  applied  to  the  little  individual 
under  discussion;  but  he  let  the  subject  drop. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "I  hope  you  didn't 
mind  my  sending  you  a  lodger." 

"Mind!  Master  Trevor,"  Pountney  replied, 
bluntly  enough,  though  the  farmer's  change  to  the 
personal  note  of  address  was  significant.  "  Mind? 
Thirty -five  shillin'  a  week's  not  to  be  sneezed  at 
these  days." 

"That's  all  right,  then.  Hope  things  will  go  on 
satisfactorily." 

"Right  enough,  I  reckon.  I  don't  see  much 
of  the  lady  myself,  but  the  missus  says,  'She'll  do.' 
No  trouble  hardly,  quiet,  and  the  dog  likes  her. 


236  The  Picnic  on  the  Island 

Out  walkin',  or  drivin',  or  sum'mat,  with  the  folk 
at  the  Cottage,  most  days. 

"And  that  reminds  me.  As  I  come  down  from 
Ardley  half  an  hour  or  more  back,  I  see'd  Mrs. 
Gautil  and  our  lodger  start-in'  out  in  a  boat. 
Picnicking,  I  reckon,  on  the  island.  The  Cottage 
folk  often  has  their  tea  there.  Can't  see  much 
sense  in  havin'  tea  out  on  the  grass,  myself;  but  I 
suppose  folks  has  to  have  diff'rent  notions  in  this 
world. 

"But  I'm  keepin'  you,  sir.  Maybe  you're  goin' 
up  to  join  'em."  His  eyes  twinkled.  The  ab- 
sence of  fish  in  the  boat  and  the  significance  of 
Wyer's  unusually  spick-and-span  appearance  were 
not  lost  upon  the  old  man.  Besides,  gossip  already 
had  been  busy. 

The  countryside  was  promising  to  itself  a  species 
of  excitement  it  loved  even  more  than  a  funeral: 
a  match  between  a  young  man  who  was  a  favourite, 
and  a  maid,  who,  if  she  were  a  "furriner, "  was 
as  "pretty  as  a  posy." 

"Well,  I  wasn't  invited,"  Wyer  replied  in- 
nocently. "But  now  you  mention  it,  a  cup  of 
tea  wouldn't  come  amiss;  so  I'll  get  along  on  the 
chance  of  getting  one. " 

Pountney  nodded  gravely,  and  turned  and 
looked    about    him.     "Hi!     Tizzy,    Tizzy!"    he 


The  Picnic  on  the  Island         237 

called  out.  "Where's  that  blessed  dog  of  mine 
got  to?"  Whistling  loudly,  and  flourishing  his 
great  cudgel,  the  old  man  strode  away;  but  after 
taking  a  few  strides,  as  if  an  afterthought  had 
suddenly  struck  him,  he  stopped  just  long  enough 
to  call  out  over  his  shoulder  with  a  poor  attempt  at 
carelessness:  "You'll  find  the  young  leddy  on 
th'  island,  Master  Trevor."  Then  he  departed, 
chuckling  to  himself. 

"Counfound  the  old  ass!"  Wyer  thought. 
* '  What  the  deuce  does  he  mean  by  that  ? ' '  He  dug 
the  sculls  viciously  into  the  unoffending  water. 
11  What  does  it  matter  to  me  if  I  do? " 

He  was  curiously  annoyed  by  Pountney's  last 
remark,  and,  after  a  few  vigorous  strokes,  he  eased 
up,  half -inclined  to  turn  the  boat  round  and  go 
home.  He  asked  himself  why  he  had  come  on  the 
river  at  all;  and  when  Obstinacy  prompted  the 
answer,  "To  fish,"  Wyer  knew  instinctively  that 
it  was  less  than  a  half-truth. 

While  still  debating  with  himself,  he  began 
mechanically  to  pull  on  up-stream,  and  for  some 
inexplicable  reason  called  himself  a  fool  for  so 
doing. 

The  island  mentioned  by  Farmer  Pountney  lay 
some  two  hundred  yards  above  the 'ford,  the  scene 
of  Trevor  Wyer's  first  meeting  with  Celeste  Gautil. 


238  The  Picnic  on  the  Island 

The  lower  end,  set  slightly  askew  across  the  river, 
was  composed  of  high,  steep  banks  fringed  with 
tall  willows  enclosing  a  kind  of  miniature  table- 
land all  covered  with  spongy  moss-turf. 

An  ideally  secluded  spot  for  a  picnic;  and  there 
was  a  window-like  gap  between  the  willows  at  the 
point  (where  one  of  the  trees  had  been  bent  side- 
ways by  a  flood  and  left  lying  aslant  against  its 
neighbour),  which  afforded  a  most  delightful  peep 
down  the  river  valley,  with  the  possible  advantage 
that  the  observer  could  see  without  being  seen. 

The  upper  half  of  the  island  sloped  abruptly 
down  to  a  shingle  bed,  affording  the  one  practicable 
landing-place  for  boating  parties.  Here,  when  the 
river  was  fairly  low,  it  was  possible  to  wade  across 
from  the  left  bank  to  the  island. 

Having  surmounted  the  long  ford,  Wyer  pulled 
on  without  turning  his  head.  Undecided  for  a 
few  moments  which  side  of  the  island  to  take, 
he  miscalculated  his  position,  and  when  he  did 
attempt  to  slew  the  boat  into  the  left  channel 
he  succeeded  in  running  aground  under  the  willows 
at  the  point.  A  merry  laugh  above  and  behind 
him  greeted  this  unwonted  display  of  lubberliness. 

Charitably,  Wyer's  remark  might  have  been 
construed  into  a  mere  boyish  "  Dash ! "  He  looked 
around;   and   almost    immediately    looked   away 


The  Picnic  on  the  Island         239 

again  and  began  fidgeting  uselessly  with  his  sculls, 
as  if  to  back  the  boat  off  into  deeper  water.  He 
had  an  unaccountable  feeling  of  dismay — that  is, 
if  dismay  may  be  applied  to  a  sensation  which 
certainly  is  not  unwelcome ! 

A  short  time  ago  he  had  asked  himself  indig- 
nantly, "What  does  it  matter  to  me  if  I  do  find 
her  on  the  island?"  And,  now,  a  momentary 
vision  of  a  laughing  face,  set  in  pink,  and  framed, 
as  it  were,  in  the  delicate  greenery  of  the  willows, 
brought  Wyer  his  answer.  It  mattered  a  very 
great  deal :  it  mattered  everything. 

Yet,  conscious  of  this,  all  Wyer  said  to  himself 
was:  "Good  heavens!" — and  felt  exceedingly  shy. 

Few  men  are  the  worse  for  shyness  when  first 
wounded  by  love.  To  most,  and  especially  to  men 
of  Wyer's  type,  love  comes  as  a  shock,  even  when 
long  foretold.  For  the  little  god  is  full  of  crafti- 
ness; he  runs  on  tip- toe  behind  the  hedge  bordering 
the  pathway  of  life,  and  flings  gossamer  after  gossa- 
mer over  the  unsuspecting  traveller. 

Mesh  by  mesh  the  net  is  woven;  then,  when  it  is 
complete,  suddenly  the  archer  draws  tight  the  folds 
and  remorselessly  fits  an  arrow  to  his  bow-string. 
Not  seldom  he  shoots  hard,  for  he  perceives  there 
is  armour  to  be  pierced.  But  naught  can  with- 
stand his  tiny  darts ;  not  even  the  armour  of  self- 


240  The  Picnic  on  the  Island 

conceit,  which,  surely,  is  proof  against  all  else. 
And  when  the  little  god  shoots  hard,  he  hurts. 
Sometimes  the  pain  is  brief,  passing  through 
wonder  to  the  very  perihelion  of  joy;  sometimes 
the  pain  ceases  only  with — death. 

Celeste  Gautil  broke  the  silence. 

"We  have  been  guessing  who  you  were,"  she 
said.  "I  told  Mother  it  was  you."  Then  she 
added  with  just  a  touch  of  formality,  as  Wyer 
turned  round  again  and  faced  her:  "We  are  just 
going  to  have  tea,  and  Mother  sent  me  to  ask  you  if 
you  would  accept  a  cup." 

"Rather!"  Wyer  replied  eagerly.  "It  is  un- 
commonly kind  of  you." 

"Uncommonly  kind!  But  you  must  thank 
Mother,  not  me." 

Before  he  could  reply  she  had  stepped  back  out 
of  sight;  but  to  his  surprise,  when  a  few  minutes 
later  he  reached  the  landing-place  at  the  top  end  of 
the  island,  he  found  the  girl  there  waiting  for  him. 

"I  almost  forgot,"  she  began  hurriedly.  "I 
wanted  to  speak  to  you  before  you  see  Mother. 
She  knows  nothing  about  the  other  night — I 
mean " 

"The  burglary  that  wasn't  a  burglary,"  Wyer 
put  in,  as  he  lifted  the  nose  of  the  boat  well  on  the 
shingle. 


The  Picnic  on  the  Island         241 

"Yes.  I  told  Dad  all  about  it,  and  he  said  I 
was  quite  right  not  to  tell  her.  Mother  is  rather 
nervous  over  some  things,  you  know." 

Wyer  nodded.  "I  say,"  he  inquired  with 
disconcerting  directness,  "have  you  forgiven  me?" 

"Forgiven  you?" 

"Well,  you  seemed" — he  stooped  to  pick 
up  his  coat — "very  angry  with  me  that  night." 

"Angry!  No,  I  wasn't.  I  think  I  was  a — a 
little  afraid " 

"Of  me?" 

"Oh,  don't  be  stupid!  You  know  what  I 
mean  perfectly  well.     And  you  were  very  cross. " 

"Cross!     Who  with?" 

"Oh,  at  being  found  there  in  the  dark,  I  sup- 
pose. " 

Wyer  knew  she  did  not  suppose  anything 
of  the  sort,  but  he  laughed  good-humouredly,  and 
replied:  "Well,  it  was  enough  to  make  any  one 
feel  a  fool,  wasn't  it?" 

"But  it  was  Hatt's  fault,"  Celeste  said  quickly, 
adding,  rather  stiffly,  "Perhaps  we  all  looked  a 
little  ridiculous." 

"You  certainly  did  not,"  Wyer  said  quietly. 
"I  thought  you  looked " 

"Like  a  cheeky  schoolgirl,"  she  took  him  up, 
moving  away;  "and  you  tried  to  lecture  me. 
16 


242  The  Picnic  on  the  Island 

But  come  along,  or  the  tea  will  be  stewed;  and  I'm 
a  perfect  fad  over  my  tea." 

Wyer  hastened  after  her,  and  together  they 
walked  slowly  up  the  slope  leading  to  the  picnic 
spot. 

"Mrs.  Aubertin  is  with  you,  isn't  she?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes.  Mother  is  revelling  in  her  society.  I'm 
quite  out  in  the  cold.  You  see  Dad  never  would 
let  me  learn  French  for  some  reason  or  another, 
and  now  Mother  is  working  off  what  she  calls  her 
*  arrears'  upon  Mrs.  Aubertin.  But  don't  be 
alarmed;  Mrs.  Aubertin  speaks  English  fluently 
when  necessary." 

"What  a  relief!"  Wyer  laughed.  "I  always 
barred  French  at  school — the  language,  I  mean ' ' 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind!  I  consider  myself  thor- 
oughly English.  And  Mother  is  only  half -French. 
Her  mother  was  English,  or  rather  Scotch.  Is 
that  too  involved  for  you?" 

"No.  My  thick  skull  can  just  take  that  in — 
but  I  always  had  an  idea  your  father  was  French. " 

"  No "  —  decidedly  —  "  Dad's  English.  You 
should  hear  him  on  the  subject.  Did  you  know 
he  had  been  home? — Oh!  but  how  stupid  of  me. 
I  practically  told  you  that  just  now." 

Wyer    nodded.     "I    knew    before,"    he    said. 


The  Picnic  on  the  Island         243 

"  Your  father  sent  me  a  letter  by  Hatt  the  day  he 
was  at  home.  I'm  sorry  he  had  to  go  away  again 
so  soon.  I  want  to  meet  him."  A  pause,  then: 
"  What  hard  luck  about  Boris!" 

Celeste  flashed  round  on  him.  "Hard  luck?" 
she  began  in  a  low,  indignant  voice,  while  unshed 
tears  glistened  in  her  eyes.  Then  she  broke  off 
in  some  confusion  as  though  she  had  nearly  been 
surprised  into  saying  something  she  particularly 
desired  to  keep  secret,  and  walked  quickly  on 
ahead. 

Her  emphasis  upon  the  word  "luck"  and  a 
subtle  change  of  manner  were  unmistakable. 
Wyer  instantly  divined  that  the  girl  did  not  regard 
Boris's  extraordinary  end  in  the  light  of  an  accident. 
Then,  what  was  her  real  opinion  concerning  the 
burglary  so  explicitly  denied  by  her  father?  An- 
other and  incredible  thought  struck  Wyer:  Was 
it  possible  that,  in  her  mind,  the  slightest  sus- 
picion attached  itself  to  him?  His  first  impulse 
was  to  blurt  out  this  question ;  he  felt  furious,  and 
was  furious  with  himself  for  feeling  furious.  But 
by  now  such  a  question  was  impossible,  for  they 
were  within  hearing  distance  of  the  elder  ladies. 

Mrs.  Gautil  gave  Wyer  a  pleasant  welcome. 
She  liked  him — quite  well  enough  to  allow  com- 
placently the  intimacy,  which  she  could  not  help 


244  The  Picnic  on  the  Island 

noticing  had  grown  up  between  the  young  people, 
to  develop  itself  in  its  own  way.  Trevor  Wyer  was 
not  clever,  nor  likely  ever  to  be  wealthy ;  but  no  one 
who  knew  him  could  fail  to  discover  the  promise  of 
a  sterling  manhood  beneath  his  external  boyish- 
ness. Mrs.  Gautil  had  already  determined  to  leave 
the  result  in  Celeste's  hands.  During  his  recent 
brief  home-coming  Mrs.  Gautil,  in  some  trepi- 
dation, had  broached  the  subject  to  her  husband. 
To  her  surprise  he  had  merely  laughed  and  said 
he  should  not  interfere,  remarking,  however,  that 
a  certain  noble  lord,  a  writer  of  vitriolic  letters, 
would  probably  have  a  deal  to  say  on  the  matter. 

The  little  picnic  was  hardly  a  success.  Mrs. 
Aubertin  spoke  but  seldom;  Celeste  made  no 
effort  to  keep  up  a  conversation,  merely  answer- 
ing questions  and  then  relapsing  into  silence. 
When  tea  was  over  she  busied  herself  packing 
away  the  paraphernalia  of  the  tea-basket  and 
refused  Wyer's  assistance  with  a  manner  that  put  a 
second  offer  entirely  out  of  court.  Mrs.  Aubertin 
had  already  risen  and  was  standing  near  the  gap 
in  the  willows  gazing  down  the  river. 

Wyer  lit  a  cigarette  and  took  the  opportunity  of 
apologising  to  Mrs.  Gautil  for  not  having  paid  his 
"dinner  call,"  pleading,  genuinely  enough,  an 
unusual  pressure  of  work  about  the  estate  as  an 


The  Picnic  on  the  Island        245 

excuse.  Then  the  conversation  turned  upon  his 
visit  to  London  as  George  Heron's  guest,  and  in 
answer  to  a  casual  inquiry  from  Mrs.  Gautil, 
Wyer  remarked  that  he  had  left  his  friend  pre- 
paring to  start  for  Vienna;  but  that  Heron  had 
promised  to  pay  a  second  and  longer  visit  to 
Janesford  as  soon  as  his  affairs  would  allow. 

"What  is  Mr.  Heron?"  Mrs.  Gautil  asked. 
"He  has  such  an  interesting  face,  I  think  he  must 
have  been  through  hardship  in  years  gone  by,  and 
yet  now  he  seems  without  a  care  in  the  world. " 

"I  really  don't  know  what  he  is,"  Wyer  replied. 

"Has  Mr.  Heron  never  told  you?"  Celeste 
broke  in,  glancing  up  from  a  process  of  grass- 
plucking  which  had  appeared  to  absorb  all  her 
attention. 

"No,"  Wyer  said,  with  a  slightly  surprised  air. 
"Why  should  he?" 

"Well,  one  generally  likes  to  know  something  of 
one's  friends,"  Celeste  retorted. 

Mrs.  Gautil,  who  had  long  divined  an  "atmo- 
sphere," smoothed  matters  with  a  suggestion. 

"In  some  ways,"  she  began,  "Mr.  Heron  re- 
minded me  of  men — the  Colonials,  I  mean — whom 
I  used  to  meet  in  Capetown.  Though  at  times  I 
could  have  declared  he  was  French,"  she  added, 
turning  to  Mrs.  Aubertin,  who  at  that  moment 


246  The  Picnic  on  the  Island 

approached.  "Mr.  Heron  dined  with  us  one 
evening,  and  he  sang  simply  charmingly  an  old 
French  song — well,  as  only  a  Frenchman  could 
have  sung  it.  When  he  comes  again  we  must  ask 
him  to  sing  it  for  your  benefit.  I  am  sure  you  will 
like  it.  Celeste,  dear !  What  was  the  name  of  the 
song?     Do  you  remember?" 

For  a  moment  or  two  Celeste  hesitated,  not  from 
fault  of  memory,  but  because  she  remembered 
the  song  all  two  vividly.  The  words,  being 
French,  had  no  meaning  for  her,  but  she  had  been 
strangely  disturbed  by  the  air  and  Heron's  re- 
markable rendering.  At  the  recollection  she 
felt  her  cheeks  redden.  II logically  enough,  she 
feared  lest  Wyer  experienced  a  similar  pertur- 
bation; and  now  she  dreaded  meeting  his  glance. 
Her  trepidation  was  quite  unnecessary;  for,  it  may 
be  said,  the  song  in  question  had  merely  given 
that  somewhat  prosaic  young  man  a  moment  or  two 
of  self -consciousness  (Wyer  himself  termed  it  "the 
fidgets")  such  as  most  Englishmen  feel  when  hear- 
ing another  man  sing  a  sentimental  song  as  though 
his  whole  soul  were  in  the  words  and  the  music. 

"Mr.  Heron  said  it  was  his  own  composition," 
Celeste  replied,  with  pronounced  frigidity.  "He 
called  it — I  think —  'Ecoute.'"  Then  she  rose 
abruptly  and  walked  away. 


The  Picnic  on  the  Island         247 

At  any  other  time  the  girl's  behaviour  would 
have  provoked  notice ;  but  it  so  happened  that  no 
one  was  paying  her  any  attention.  Both  her 
mother  and  Wyer  were  anxiously  watching  Mrs. 
Aubertin,  who,  after  echoing  the  name  of  the  song 
in  a  low  voice,  had  grown  very  pale,  and  was  pal- 
pably under  the  influence  of  some  physical  or 
emotional  stress. 

Wyer  sprang  to  his  feet  and  flung  away  his 
cigarette;  he  quite  expected  Mrs.  Aubertin  to 
faint;  Mrs.  Gautil  rose  more  slowly. 

"I  think  it  has  become  a  little  chilly,"  she 
remarked,  with  the  forgivable  inaccuracy  of  tact, 
giving  Wyer  a  meaning  glance.  Then,  "Celeste, 
dear,  will  you  help  Mr.  Wyer  to  carry  the  basket 
to  the  boat?" 

There  are  some  maternal  tones,  even  from  so 
mild  a  person  as  Mrs.  Gautil,  which  brook  no 
argument;  and  Celeste,  while  not  understanding 
the  reason  for  the  command,  and  with  obvious 
reluctance,  came  slowly  back  and  grasped  one  of 
the  handles  of  the  tea-basket. 

She  did  not  speak  on  the  way  to  the  boats,  and 
although  he  particularly  desired  to  "have  it  out," 
Celeste's  demeanour  was  so  discouraging  that  Wyer 
also  found  himself  tongue-tied,  and  when  on 
arriving  at  the  landing-place  the  girl  walked  away 


248  The  Picnic  on  the  Island 

and  stood  with  her  back  to  him,  apparently  en- 
thralled by  the  sunlit  vista  of  woodland  and  river 
up-stream,  he,  too,  turned  his  back  and  busied 
himself  with  the  boats.  They  were  both  relieved 
when  the  others  joined  them. 

"Mrs.  Aubertin  thinks  she  would  like  to  get 
back  to  the  farm  as  quickly  as  possible,"  Mrs. 
Gautil  said  to  Wyer;  "would  you  please  take  her 
down  in  your  boat  and  see  her  home?" 

"Of  course.  I  shall  be  delighted,"  Wyer  an- 
swered, and  set  about  borrowing  cushions  from  the 
Gautils'  luxuriously  furnished  boat  to  make  his 
own  old  "utility"  craft  more  comfortable.  With- 
out fuss  he  conducted  the  embarkation  of  the  elder 
ladies;  Celeste  gave  him  no  opportunity  of  assist- 
ing her,  and  he  sought  none.  Wyer  was  not  a  man 
of  sighs  and  beseeching  glances — which,  after  all, 
are  often  but  the  hall-mark  of  the  egotist.  Besides, 
he  was  ruffled  by  Celeste's  unaccountable  change  of 
mood.  Having  despatched  the  Gautils,  for  conve- 
nience sake  Wyer  pulled  up-stream  a  few  strokes, 
and  let  the  boat  drift  down  stern  first  on  the  quieter 
water  of  the  narrow  channel  on  the  other  side  of  the 
island. 

Two  thirds  of  the  way  down  the  channel  Mrs. 
Aubertin  uttered  a  low  exclamation,  and,  following 
her  gaze,  Wyer  perceived  a  fisherman,  a  plump, 


The  Picnic  on  the  Island         249 

rosy-cheeked,  little  fellow,  sitting  at  the  water's 
edge  under  the  overhanging  willows  and  just 
beneath  the  spot  where  the  picnic  party  had  tea. 
From  above  the  man  was  completely  hidden;  but, 
unless  he  had  been  asleep  (as,  indeed,  he  appeared 
to  be  now),  he  must  have  overheard  every  word 
spoken.  As  the  boat  passed  the  angler  opened 
his  eyes,  nodded,  then  grinned  with  a  comical 
expression  of  guilt  at  being  caught  napping 

"He  quite  startled  me,"  Mrs.  Aubertin  excused 
herself,  with  a  nervous  laugh.  "  How — how  did  he 
get  there?" 

"Oh!  waded  across,  I  expect,"  Wyer  replied 
soothingly,  and  promptly  put  his  back  into  his 
work.  His  passenger  looked  as  though  she  had 
seen,  or  expected  to  see,  a  ghost,  and  the  sooner 
she  was  under  Mrs.  Pountney's  motherly  care  the 
better. 

When  the  boat  had  shot  round  the  bend  the 
fisherman  lit  a  cigarette,  after  the  manner  of  one 
who  has  been  deprived  of  his  petty  vice  for  an 
undue  length  of  time. 

"Phoo!"  he  ejaculated,  expelling  a  great  cloud 
of  smoke.  "Now,  did  she  recognise  me — or  did 
she  expect  me  to  be  some  one  else?  .  .  .  And  so 
that  is  Mme.  Aubertin?  .  .  .  Here,  perhaps,  yes. 
But  in  Paris,  no.     If  that  is  not  the  Vicomtesse  X. 


250  The  Picnic  on  the  Island 

then  I  am  not  Henri  Faverol.  .  .  .  Louis,  you  old 
fox !  A  thousand  compliments  to  you,  wherever  you 
may  be !  Ha !  ha !  .  .  .  And  this  M.  George  Heron ; 
he  has  already  paid  a  visit  to  this  charming  neigh- 
bourhood, and  he  is  to  return  here  shortly,  when 
his  business  in  Vienna  permits.  Indeed !  And  our 
young  milord's  son  who  lives  such  a  lonely  life  in 
that  dreary  dog-hole  of  a  chateau — he  does  not 
know  the  occupation  of  his  friend.  How  strange ! 
But  Mme.  Gautil  fancies  he  is — er — Colonial. 
He,  he!  Very  good,  we  will  take  a  peep  at  M. 
George  Heron  and  see  what  we  make  of  him. 
Phoo!" 

Deep  in  reflections  such  as  these,  M.  Faverol 
took  his  fishing-rod  to  pieces,  and  having  bestowed 
his  tackle  neatly  among  his  various  pockets  he 
scrambled  up  through  the  willows  to  the  little 
table-land.  After  roaming  about  for  some  con- 
siderable time  he  waded  barefoot  across  the  shingle 
ridge  to  the  mainland,  and  set  off  leisurely  on  his 
long  tramp  back  to  Beaudelay,  where  for  the  past 
two  days  he  had  occupied  humble  lodgings  in  an 
outlying  cottage. 

Before  he  had  gone  halfway  the  sun  sank 
below  the  wooded  ridges  behind  him,  and  with 
remarkable  suddenness  the  valley  became  en- 
shrouded  in   sombre   shadow.     Eerily   from   the 


The  Picnic  on  the  Island         251 

water  rose  a  chill  autumn  mist.  Over  the  flat 
meadows  of  the  Janesford  Home  Farm  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  Faverol  remarked  that  it 
lay  like  a  white,  still  flood  from  which  stood  out 
trees — indistinct  islets  of  mystery.  Beyond,  a 
solitary  light  marking  Janesford  Hall  seemed  to 
intensify  the  all-pervading  loneliness  and  quiet. 
With  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  Faverol  continued 
his  walk.  His  spirits  habitually  were  of  the  high 
order,  and  just  now  he  was  especially  buoyant ;  so 
he  whistled  gaily  little  tunes  of  his  own  invention, 
set  to  rhymes  of  his  nursery  days.  As  his  nursery 
had  been  the  gutter,  Faverol  had  quite  a  pretty 
talent  for  whistling.  His  rhymes,  it  may  be,  were 
questionable. 

Doubtless,  his  present  happy  humour  would 
have  been  considerably  brightened  had  he  known 
that,  awaiting  the  Hon.  Trevor  Wyer  in  the  room 
whence  shone  the  solitary  light,  was  a  letter  in 
which  George  Heron  requested  permission  to  put 
in  an  appearance  at  Janesford  in  two  days'  time. 


CHAPTER  X 

FAVEROL  HAS  AN  INSPIRATION 

HTHE  preliminaries  of  his  " private  case"  gave 
*  Faverol  but  little  difficulty.  Whatever  his 
personal  foibles  might  be  (and,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, he  "posed"  somewhat,  even  to  himself), 
in  his  profession  the  little  police  agent  was  very- 
far  from  being  a  fool. 

It  was,  indeed,  no  small  compliment  to  him  that 
he  had  been  selected  for  special  service  on  a  matter 
which  (though  Faverol  himself  pooh-poohed  it) 
had  long  been  a  source  of  secret  and  genuine 
worry  to  the  heads  of  police  throughout  Europe. 

To  trace  Sebastien  Gautil,  or,  rather,  his  family 
to  Seckley  Cottage  had  been  mere  novice  work, 
and  Faverol  had  made  short  account  of  it,  though 
the  closed-up  house  in  Brantworth  Square  had 
checked  him  for  a  few  hours. 

Having  got  thus  far,  unlike  Mrs.  Aubertin, 
Faverol  did  not  attempt  to  find  lodgings  in  Seck- 
ley village.     A  stranger  in  so  small  a  place,  he 

252 


Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration       253 

would  have  attracted  undue  attention.  Instead, 
he  fell  back  upon  the  town  of  Beaudelay ;  and,  in  a 
very  short  while,  it  got  about  that  the  "  genial  old 
bloke  staying  at  Widow  Mentor's  cottage"  was  a 
"Mr.  Faver,"  a  retired  linendraper  (in  a  small 
way),  now  enjoying  an  indefinite  and  somewhat 
vagrant  holiday. 

Rumour  had  it  that  he  was  Scotch,  which  was 
accounted  for,  perhaps,  by  Mr.  Faver's  unfamiliar 
accent,  and  by  the  fact  that  his  command  of  the 
English  language  was  far  more  correct  than  that  of 
nine  out  of  ten  of  the  people  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact.  Mr.  Faver  was  at  pains  not  to  repudiate 
his  new  nationality;  he  found  it  most  convenient. 

It  was  on  the  morning  following  his  eventful 
fishing  excursion  to  the  island  that  Faverol,  while 
dressing,  first  put  his  "case"  before  himself  with 
any  definiteness.  He  drew  up,  as  it  were,  a  kind 
of  mental  schedule. 

"1.  The  man,  Gautil" — he  began — "exists 
in  fact. 

11 2.  A  lady,  a  Frenchwoman  (who,  I  am  posi- 
tive, is  the  Vicomtesse  X.),  has  recently  put  in  an 
appearance  in  the  neighbourhood.  She  has  al- 
ready achieved  a  friendship  with  this  Gautil' s 
wife  and  daughter.     Therefore : 

"Granted — because  obvious:  That  sly  old  fox, 


254       Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration 

Louis,  in  a  measure  spoke  the  truth.  In  Room 
20  of  the  Beche  Noire  a  mysterious  individual  did 
keep  an  assignation  with  a  woman  whom  he  told  to 
come  to  England  and  make  the  acquaintance  of 
some  people  called  Gautil. 

"Deduction:  At  the  time  of  the  assignation  this 
myst.  indiv.  either  knew  the  Gautils  previously,  or 
knew  of  them. 

"Question:  Is  there  any  one  now  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood likely  to  be  that  myst.  indiv.? 

"Answer  (by  elimination)  No.  (i)  But  a 
stranger  called.  Heron  some  weeks  ago  paid  a 
visit  to  Janesford  Hall — and  he  is  coming  again. 
(2)  Sebastien  Gautil  himself  may  be  the  myst. 
indiv.,  in  which  case  the  whole  affair  will  probably 
prove  to  be  merely  a  vulgar  and  astonishingly 
barefaced  intrigue  of  a  married  man.  (Note. — 
This  Gautil  is  frequently  absent  from  home.) 
.  .  .  But  on  consideration  this  (2)  may  be  deleted, 
because  Louis  stated  that  the  myst.  indiv.  wore 
a  beard  and  moustache  (his  own),  whereas  this 
Gautil  is  reputed  to  be  clean-shaven. 

"Again,  Louis  spoke  of  two  other  men. 

"Argument:  Either  Louis,  drawing  upon  his 
memory  of  the  'Invisibles,'  put  these  two  men  in  to 
give  colour  to  an  otherwise  very  commonplace 
narrative,  or 


Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration       255 

"He  spoke  truth  in  this  also. 

"If  Louis  lied,  I,  Faverol,  am  on  a  wild-goose 
chase. 

"If  he  spoke  truth,  then,  perhaps,  the  myst. 
indiv.  was  (is)  Andre  Gaspard. 

"Let  us  grant  this.  The  equation,  then,  is 
formed. 

"Myst.  indiv.  =  Andre  Gaspard. 

"Myst.  indiv.  =  Heron  (?). 

"Therefore,  Heron  =  Andre  Gaspard! 

"But  supposing  Andre  Gaspard  to  have  escaped 
from  New  Caledonia  and  returned  to  Europe? 
And  supposing  him  to  be  this  Heron?  What  is  he 
intending  chez  Gautil? 

"They  say  hereabouts  that  this  Gautil  has  a 
'collection'  of  sorts.  Then,  the  obvious  answer 
to  my  question  is,  Robbery;  which — equally 
obviously — has  yet  to  take  place." 

(Wherein,  of  course,  M.  Faverol  was  quite 
inaccurate.) 

"The  Vicomtesse  X.?"— he  went  on— "What 
part  is  she  playing  here?  Accomplice?  H'm. 
No!  more  likely".  .  .  (M.  Faverol  was  a  man  of 
the  world ;  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  dismissed 
that  line  of  thought.  But  he  was  glad  there  was  a 
woman  in  the  case.  It  was  sure  to  make  matters 
easier  for  him  in  the  end.) 


256       Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration 

''Finally" — the  police  agent  concluded,  as  he 
brushed  his  hair  in  front  of  an  ancient  mirror, 
which  certainly  ought  to  have  been  sued  forthwith 
for  libel — "finally,  there  is  the  little — shall  we 
say? — poacher,  of  whom  my  landlady  spoke — who 
was  seen  twice  near  Seckley  Cottage  upon  the 
same  night.  He  is  a  stranger  in  this  locality. 
H'm.  Jean,  'the  Rat,'  one  of  that  Gaspard's 
confederates,  was  ridiculously  small. ".  .  .  Uncon- 
sciously Faverol  expanded  his  chest,  and  made 
the  most  of  his  five  feet  five  inches. 

In  the  act  of  drawing  in  a  deep  breath  Faverol 
also  inhaled  the  very  material  odour  of  bacon 
sizzling  in  the  pan,  and  his  train  of  thought  was 
forthwith  switched  off  upon  the  track  of  break- 
fast. "Mr.  Faver"  made  haste  to  descend  the 
rickety  stairs  to  the  parlour,  whistling  like  the 
proverbial  lark. 

Later  in  the  day  he  was  to  be  seen  upon  the 
river  bank,  angling  sedulously,  never  very  for 
away  from  the  big  gates  at  the  bottom  of  the 
Janesford  avenue.  Occasionally  he  munched  a 
crust  of  bread  and  chocolate,  between  whiles  he 
smoked  a  perfect  "chain"  of  cigarettes. 

The  first  day  his  catch  of  fish  worked  out  at 
four  small  gudgeon.  Nevertheless,  noon  of  the 
next  day  found  him  again  in  the  same  spot.     Had 


Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration       257 

it  been  necessary  he  would  have  returned  thither 
every  day  for  a  month. 

His  illimitable  stock  of  patience,  however,  was 
scarcely  sampled,  even. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  Hon.  Tre- 
vor Wyer  swung  out  of  the  avenue  in  his  dog-cart, 
and  set  off  at  a  rattling  pace  towards  Beaudelay. 

"Mr.  Faver"  immediately  reverted  to  Faverol — 
and  became  professionally  hopeful.  It  occurred  to 
him  that  the  "London  train"  reached  Beaudelay 
Station  at  4.25  p.m.,  and  that  the  young  milord's 
son  was  driving  to  meet  it.  Evidently  Wyer 
himself  was  returning,  for  there  was  no  groom. 
Possibly,  then,  he  would  bring  back  a  passenger. 

Faverol's  conjecture  proved  correct.  Just  as 
the  autumn  daylight  was  beginning  to  fade  and 
thin  wisps  of  mist  to  rise  from  the  river,  he  per- 
ceived in  the  distance  the  dog-cart  with  two  men 
seated  in  it  coming  round  the  big  bend  in  the  road. 
At  once  he  gathered  together  his  fishing-tackle 
and  sauntered  along  the  footpath. 

As  the  dog-cart  approached,  Faverol  called  out 
a  cheery  "Good-night!"  in  true  country  style; 
and  Wyer,  recognising  in  him  the  somnolent  angler 
of  the  island,  grinned  pleasantly,  and  raised  his 
whip  by  way  of  acknowledgment. 

Wyer's  companion,  an  upright,  grey-bearded, 
17 


258       Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration 

almost  naval-looking  man,  who  appeared  to  be 
upon  the  best  of  terms  with  all  the  world,  barely 
accorded  Faverol  a  glance,  and  went  on  with  the 
humorous  anecdote  which  he  was  relating  in 
jovial,  care-free  tones. 

Somehow,  Faverol  experienced  a  " setback.' ' 
"Phoo!"  he  muttered.  "Phoo!  That  may  be 
M.  Heron.  But  Andre  Gaspard! — that  remark- 
ably fine,  happy-looking  individual — a  forqat! 
Twenty  years  of  New  Caledonia,  and  he  returns 
like  that!     Incredible !" 

The  " setback* '  was  pronounced.  Faverol  be- 
came almost  irritable.  "Here  am  I,"  he  said  to 
himself,  as  he  trudged  along  the  lonely  riverside 
road,  "a  man  who  should  be  surprised  at  nothing  in 
this  world,  allowing  myself  to  get  a  tic  because  of  a 
fleeting  impression — like  a  neurotic  school-miss! 
Pah!" 

Nevertheless,  the  impression  clung  to  him. 
On  arrival  at  his  lodgings  he  climbed  to  his  attic 
bedroom,  lighted  a  candle,  and  took  from  a  small, 
locked  portfolio  the  old  newspaper  cutting  which 
he  had  artlessly  appropriated  from  Louis  at  their 
interview  in  Paris.  Then  he  flung  himself  upon 
his  bed  and  gave  himself  up  to  a  minute  scrutiny  of 
the  portraits  of  the  " Invisibles."  It  availed  him 
little  enough. 


Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration       259 

At  the  expiration  of  half  an  hour  his  landlady 
called  up  the  stairs,  inquiring  if  "Mister  Faver" 
knew  that  supper  had  been  waiting  on  the  table 
this,  she  didn't  know,  how  long. 

"Ah!  if  only  Louis  were  here,"  he  murmured 
with  a  sigh.  Then,  fervently,  under  his  breath, 
he  cursed  Louis  for  his  crass  stupidity  in  allowing 
himself  to  be  burnt  to  death  in  the  conflagration 
of  the  Beche  Noire.  Thus,  for  a  second  time,  and 
in  a  second  issue  connected  with  his  "case," 
Faverol  unwittingly  was  remarkably  inaccurate. 

After  supper  he  went  out  for  a  stroll ;  but  instead 
of  paying  his  customary  call  at  that  most  useful 
fount  of  gossip,  the  "Live  and  Let  Live  Inn,"  he 
again  took  the  road  to  Janesford. 

In  the  circumstances,  Janesford  Hall  had  an 
irresistible  attraction  for  him,  and,  though  the 
police  agent  had  formed  no  definite  plan,  the  dense 
mist  seemed  opportune:  it  gave  him  ideas  and 
suggested  enterprise. 

By  the  time  he  reached  the  big  gates,  Faverol' s 
ideas  to  some  extent  had  materialised.  The 
avenue  was  broad,  and  he  made  his  way  up  it  as 
boldly  as  the  mist  would  allow ;  but  on  nearing  the 
courtyard  two  dogs  began  barking,  and  he  slipped 
like  a  shadow  into  a  path  through  the  shrubbery. 

Presently,  he  found  himself  facing  the  side  door, 


260       Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration 

now  promoted  to  the  dignity  of  main  entrance. 
An  old-fashioned  lantern  suspended  under  the 
porch  cast  a  dim  light  upon  the  short  flight  of  steps, 
while  at  the  same  time,  curiously  enough,  bringing 
into  prominence  the  black  iron  nail-heads  with 
which  the  ancient  door  was  studded.  Otherwise, 
on  this  side,  the  mansion  was  in  complete  darkness, 
and  seemed  to  loom  up  unnaturally  big  and  sombre 
through  the  mist. 

The  continual  barking  of  the  dogs  disturbed 
Faverol  not  one  whit.  He  felt  assured  that  they 
were  on  the  chain;  else,  he  surmised,  they  would 
not  now  be  barking.  The  police  agent  also 
guessed  quite  correctly  the  breed  of  the  two  dogs, 
an  Airedale  and  a  fox-terrier:  a  precision  which 
may  serve  to  show  Faverol  in  his  true  professional 
light. 

After  a  few  moments'  hesitation  Faverol  turned 
away  from  the  door,  and  deserting  the  path, 
brushed  cautiously  through  the  bushes,  until, 
striking  a  new  path,  he  came  to  an  arched  opening 
in  a  high,  thick  yew  hedge. 

Passing  through  this,  he  emerged  upon  a  broad 
terrace  stretching  along  the  front  of  the  Hall. 
The  long  tier  of  ground-floor  windows  had  an 
elevation  of  six  feet  or  more  above  the  terrace; 
only  one  of  them,  at  the  extreme  right  of  the  build- 


Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration       261 

ing  and  quite  close  to  the  yew  hedge,  was  illumi- 
nated. 

Faverol  noticed  that  the  lighted  window  was 
latticed  and  slightly  open.  A  stone  flower  urn 
seemed  to  offer  support  for  the  right  foot ;  the  left, 
with  a  slight  stretch,  could  easily  be  planted  firmly 
upon  a  buttress. 

Faverol  crossed  the  terrace  on  tiptoe;  and  in 
a  few  instants  had  gained  a  position  from  which, 
by  bending  sideways,  he  could  rest  his  forearms 
upon  the  deep,  projecting  window-sill.  Although 
the  curtains  were  drawn,  he  could  hear  clearly 
enough  two  men,  whom  he  judged  to  be  the 
Hon.  Trevor  and  his  guest,  conversing  within 
the  room. 

Probably,  dinner  over,  they  were  now  comfort- 
ably settled  in  chairs  before  the  fire.  With  envy, 
Faverol' s  keen  nostrils  distinguished  both  pipe 
and  cigar  smoke  creeping  out  and  mingling  with  the 
earthy  smell  of  the  night  mist. 

For  a  long  time  nothing  of  any  interest  whatever 
reached  the  listener's  ears.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
since  all  Faverol  hoped  to  learn  was  the  identity  of 
Wyer's  guest,  he  might  reasonably  have  curbed 
his  impatience  until  breakfast  next  morning,  when 
his  landlady  undoubtedly  would  have  supplied  the 
information. 


262       Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration 

Gossip  flies  fast  in  Beaudelay.  But  Faverol  had 
experience  of  "cases"  in  which  the  slighest  delay 
in  gaining  information  had  marred,  if  not  entirely 
frustrated,  success;  and,  in  business,  the  police 
agent  suffered  no  squeamishness  concerning  his 
method  of  gaining  that  information.  The  safety 
of  the  public,  he  would  observe,  with  an  intense 
seriousness,  "ranks  higher  than  the  privacy  of  the 
individual;  but  I,  Henri  Faverol,  remember,  am  a 
gentleman,  always.     Phoo!" 

At  last,  a  casual  remark  uttered  within  the 
room  removed  all  doubts — hopes,  even — that  the 
stranger  was  other  than  M.  Heron;  and  Faverol 
was  on  the  point  of  vacating  his  position,  when  he 
overheard  something  further,  which  made  him 
prick  up  his  ears  and  completely  forget  the  cramp- 
edness  of  his  limbs. 

"By  the  way,"  he  heard  Heron  inquire,  "has 
Gautil  pere  put  in  an  appearance  yet?" 

"Yes,"  Wyer  replied,  "but  only  on  a  flying 
visit.  I  didn't  see  him.  But,  I  say,  that  reminds 
me;  I've  rather  a  rum  yarn  for  you. " 

Wyer  then  proceeded  to  give  a  slangy,  but  very 
thorough,  account  of  his  extraordinary  experience 
on  the  night  on  which  he  had  returned,  from 
London. 

The  narrative  concluded  with  Hatt's  delivery 


Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration       263 

of  Gautil' s  letter;  then  Faverol  heard  a  chair 
pushed  back,  some  one  move  across  the  room,  and 
a  drawer  pulled  open  vigorously,  followed  by  a 
rustle  of  papers. 

''That's  the  letter,"  Wyer  said.  "It's  hardly 
cricket,  I  suppose,  to  show  it  to  you;  but — tell  the 
truth — I've  been  a  goodish  bit  bothered  over  the 
whole  affair,  and  at  sixes  and  sevens  what  to  do. 
.  .  .  What  do  you  make  of  it?"  after  a  pause. 

"A  trifle  over-humble,"  said  Heron.  "But  it 
seems  plain  enough.  How  does  Hatt  explain  his 
mistake?" 

"He  doesn't  try  to,"  said  Wyer.  "Dumb  as  a 
fish.  Had  his  orders — and  he's  going  to  stick  to 
them,  I  take  it.     A  capital  servant." 

"H'm.  For  the  'stupidity  of  an  over-zealous 
servant,'  as  Mr.  Gautil  puts  it  in  his  letter,  I 
should  put  'an  excess  of  beer. 

"I'd  agree,"  Wyer  said  dubiously,  "if  I  could 
forget  those  three  empty  picture  frames." 

"Why  bother?"  his  guest  said,  in  a  slightly 
bored  tone.  "  If  a  man  likes  to  lose  his  belongings 
without  making  an  effort  to  recover  them,  let  him 
— say  I.  Besides,  it's  just  possible  that  Gautil 
is  pulling  all  sorts  of  invisible  strings,  and  any 
publicity  would  ruin  his  plans." 

" Possible,  I  suppose, "  Wyer  grumbled.     "Any- 


264       Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration 

way,  it  strikes  me  I'd  have  done  better  if  I'd  given 
the  police  first  innings.  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is," 
he  jerked  out,  after  a  short  silence,  ''it's  a  rotten 
thing  to  say,  but  if  Gautil  wasn't — er — who  he 
is,  I  should  feel  inclined  to  think  there  was  some- 
thing fishy  in  the  affair." 

"Eh?    Fishy?" 

1 '  Yes.     Pitch -watered-overnight  kind  of  job — ' ' 

"  What !     You  mean  Gautil " 

"Well,  this  hushing  up — hanged  if  it  doesn't 
look  as  if  he  didn't  want  any  one  to  know  he  had 
the  beastly  things  in  the  first  instance." 

"Perhaps  he  doesn't.  These  collectors  are 
touchy  fellows.  Every-day  morality  doesn't  al- 
ways apply  to  them" — a  careless  laugh;  then: 
"But,  my  dear  chap,  as  I  said  before,  why  bother? 
Personally,  I  don't  believe  there  was  any  burglary 
at  all." 

"I  don't  know  so  much.  Lately,  the  more 
I  think  of  it,  the  less  I  doubt  it.  But,  I  say,  don't 
run  away  with  the  idea  that  I'm  hinting  Gautil 
stole  pictures  or  anything  else."  Wyer  put  in 
hastily.  "  Oh !  hang  it !  I've  been  bothered  lately 
by  the  confounded  business.  You  see,  it  happens 
to  be  rather  a  personal  matter  with  me.  Er — it's 
like  this.  I  shouldn't  like  to  think  Miss  Gautil's 
father  was — er — well,  'not  quite* — er — " 


Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration       265 

Faverol  heard  but  a  very  little  more.  Whether 
from  the  fact  that  he  was,  as  he  frequently  stated, 
a  gentleman  always,  or  from  a  cynical  reasoning 
which  told  him  that  the  topic  introduced  by  Wyer 
was  both  inexhaustible  and  immaterial,  or,  merely, 
because  his  limbs  had  become  unendurably 
cramped:  whatever  the  reason,  Faverol  cautiously 
descended  to  the  ground. 

Having  obliterated  as  far  as  he  was  able  all 
traces  of  his  presence,  he  made  a  bee-line  down  the 
park  land  sloping  away  from  the  terrace  in  front  of 
the  mansion,  and  joined  the  avenue  close  by  the 
big  gates.  He  had  no  "nerves";  and  the  eerie 
stillness  which  a  heavy  mist  seems  to  compel  upon 
a  rural  night  only  served  to  help  him  to  concentrate 
his  thoughts.     And  he  had  cause  to  think. 

A  robbery  might,  or  might  not,  have  taken  place 
at  Seckley  Cottage.  Faverol  would  settle  that 
question  later.  It  might  have  been  the  work  of 
Andre  Gaspard  and  his  gang ;  or  it  might  be  merely 
a  coincidence.  Heron  might  be  Andre  Gaspard, 
or—  "     ("Curse  Louis !") 

Here  Faverol's  thoughts  stumbled,  but  instantly 
revived,  for  he  had  other,  more  insistent  matters 
to  think  about. 

While  listening  at  the  window,  one  of  those 
flashes  of  inspiration — guesswork,  if  you  like,  but 


266       Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration 

they  mark  genius — which  not  seldom  bring  fame 
to  men  of  his  profession  and  experience  in  pouncing 
upon  apparently  trivial  details:  one  of  those 
flashes  had  caused  Faverol  almost  to  dismiss  Andre 
Gaspard  trom  his  mind.  Indeed,  it  seemed  as  if  in 
his  quest  of  what  might  prove  to  be  a  shadow, 
Faverol  had  stumbled  upon  a  reality. 

Granted  (thus  he  argued  with  himself  as  he 
plodded  homewards  through  the  mist) — granted 
that  a  robbery  had  taken  place  at  Seckley  Cottage. 

Suppose  three  pictures — if  nothing  else — had 
been  stolen. 

Very  well.     And  this  Gautil  denied  it.     Why? 

The  pictures  were  of  no  value.     Pooh ! 

Then  they  were  valuable.  Three  valuable 
pictures.  Three !  Two,  fairly  large ;  one,  smaller. 
Three! 

"  Name  of  a  pig !  Why  do  I  keep  on  thinking  of 
those  three  pictures  stolen  from  the  Louvre?" 
Faverol  muttered,  coming  suddenly  to  a  halt  upon 
the  crown  of  Beaudelay  Bridge.  "Oh!  decidedly 
T  must  make  the  acquaintance  of  this  Gautil. M 

At  that  moment  he  was  recalled  to  his  surround- 
ings by  the  misty  approach  of  a  burly  be-caped 
figure,  who  seemed  desirous  of  exercising  his  right 
to  be  inquisitive.  "Mr.  Faver"  granted  the  con- 
stable   every    facility,    offered    him    a    cigarette, 


Faverol  Has  an  Inspiration       267 

sympathised  with  him  over  the  hardships  of  his  lot, 
and,  having  uttered  a  pious  expression  of  thankful- 
ness that  he  himself  was  not  in  the  "for-r-ce, "  con- 
tinued on  his  way  bedwards,  whistling  merry  little 
trills. 

At  Janesford  Hall  several  hours  later  another 
man's  thoughts  centred  on  Sebastien  Gautil.  It 
was  interesting,  of  course — because  quite  unex- 
pected—that his  young  host's  reserve  concerning 
the  charming  daughter  had  broken  down;  but  it 
was  as  nothing  compared  with  the  father's  unac- 
countable desire  to  keep  his  loss  secret. 

Striding  with  noiseless  footfalls  up  and  down  his 
long  bedchamber,  Heron  pondered  over  his  first 
meeting  with  Celeste  Gautil,  when  he  had  been 
startled  into  a  display  of  bad  manners  by  a  certain 
resemblance  he  had  seen  for  an  instant  in  her  face. 
Yes;  and  on  the  night  he  had  dined  at  Seckley 
Cottage  he  had  again,  once  or  twice,  caught  that 
resemblance  to  one  whose  features  were  constantly 
in  his  mind.  It  accounted  for  his  return  to  Janes- 
ford,  and  his  determination  at  all  risks  to  see  this 
Gautil — to  follow  up  what  he  believed  to  be  his 
luck.  Luck  had  revealed  to  him  that  resemblance : 
luck — Heron's  providence — which  stood  to  him 
for  religion — his  everything. 


268       Faverol  Has.  an  Inspiration 

All  at  once  Heron  stood  stock  still;  a  gleam  of 
sardonic  amusement  came  into  his  eyes,  and 
relieved  momentarily  the  grim  set  of  his  brows. 

"By !"  he  muttered.     (How  strange  it  is 

that  those  who  believe  least  in  the  Deity  should 

call  upon  His  Name    most    often!)     "By  ! 

whoever  he  is,  I  suspect  this  Gautil  is  a  'crook/ 
He  is  of  the  fraternity.*' 

Suddenly,  flinging  up  an  arm  with  an  extra- 
ordinarily dramatic  gesture,  Heron  apostrophised 
the  dark  oaken  ceiling:  "Ah,  Luck!  Luck!  Luck! 
Is  it  my  luck?" 

He  might  have  been  a  pagan  priest  invoking 
the  special  fetish  of  his  tribe.  A  Highlander 
would  have  said  that  the  man  was  "fey." 


CHAPTER  XI 

MARKING  TIME — AND  ONE  WINDPIPE 

\  TOW  that,  owing  to  his  sudden  inspiration,  M. 
*  ^  Faverol's  attention  had  been  drawn  more 
closely  to  the  absentee  tenant  of  Seckley  Cottage, 
the  police  agent  perceived  that  what  he  had  already 
learned  with  regard  to  Mr.  Gautil  took  on  a  very 
different,  and  significant  aspect. 

Examined  in  the  light  of  suspicion,  it  was, 
indeed,  extraordinary  how  impenetrable  a  barrier 
of  secrecy  Gautil  had  contrived  around  himself 
and  his  household.  Everything  seemed  to  point 
to  a  desire  to  have  as  few  clacking  tongues  about 
him  as  possible.  Take  the  evident  forethought 
with  which  the  servants  at  the  old  dower  house  had 
been  chosen. 

The  cook,  the  'tween-maid,  the  parlour-maid, 
and  the  lady's  maid,  all  elderly,  unprepossessing  to 
a  degree,  and  "imported,"  "kept  themselves  to 
themselves,"  said  the  local  gossips,  often  adding 
that  they  hoped  the  furriners  would  continue  to  do 

269 


270    Marking  Time — One  Windpipe 

so:  for  their  faces  were  enough  to  turn  all  the 
cream  in  the  neighbourhood  sour. 

The  two  gardeners,  who  lived  in  cottages  at 
Seckley  village,  knew  nothing  concerning  the 
interior  arrangements  of  their  employer's  house, 
and  they  seemed  to  care  less.  Report  had  it 
that  their  wages  were  unusually  high. 

Then  there  was  Hatt — "close  as  a  fish." 
Nothing  to  be  got  from  him.  Locally  the  ex- 
soldier  was  no  favourite,  and  he  had  been  left 
severely  alone  since  the  occasion  when  the  "fancy 
man"  of  the  gossips,  having  failed  to  draw  his 
reserve,  had  stated  that  a  savage  Indian  had  cut 
out  the  blooming  lobster's  tongue  and  strung  it 
round  his  neck  for  a  keepsake.  Hearing  which, 
and  objecting  to  being  miscalled,  Hatt  had  replied 
that  at  all  events  his  fists  had  been  spared  to  him ; 
and  he  had  proceeded  to  give  a  practical  and  very 
effective  demonstration  of  the  fact. 

Again,  Faverol  pondered,  how  curious  it  was 
that  so  obviously  wealthy  and  far  from  parsimo- 
nious an  individual  as  Gautil  should  leave  the  lodge 
at  the  top  of  the  Seckley  drive  untenanted  and  out 
of  repair!  Coupled  with  the  other  peculiarities, 
the  omission  was  striking ! 

With  regard  to  Gautil's  "collection,"  Faverol 
could  find  out  nothing  definite.     Apparently  Mrs. 


Marking  Time — One  Windpipe    271 

Gautil  and  her  daughter  took  so  little  interest 
that  they  never  mentioned  it;  though,  of  course, 
they  might  only  be  carrying  out  Gautil' s  expressed 
wishes  in  the  matter.  The  servants  of  those  few 
people  who  paid  calls  at  Seckley  Cottage  affirmed 
that  their  masters  and  mistresses  had  never  been 
permitted  to  view  the  ''collection." 

Of  tittle-tattle,  of  course,  there  was  plenty. 
For  example,  the  bricklayers,  who  had  assisted  at 
the  building-in  of  Hatt's  cubicle,  hinted  that 
Gautil' s  was  not  an  inanimate  collection,  but  .  .  . 
well,  in  the  game  of  inventing  skeletons  for  other 
folks'  cupboards  the  countryside  can  give  points, 
and  a  beating,  to  the  towns. 

Faverol  was  forced  to  admit  that  he  was  in  a 
cul-de-sac.  He  would  have  given  almost  all  he 
possessed  for  a  description,  however  meagre,  of  the 
three  paintings  which  now  he  was  stubbornly  con- 
vinced were  not  only  "missing"  from  Gautil' s 
"collection,"  but  were  the  three  famous  invalu- 
able masterpieces  stolen  by  "English  Harry" 
from  the  Louvre  in  Paris. 

And,  oddly  enough,  the  more  Faverol  allowed 
his  mind  to  dwell  upon  the  possibility  of  Gautil 
being  a  rogue,  the  more  sceptical  he  became  that 
George  Heron  was  Andre  Gaspard.  In  fact,  to  his 
chagrin,  he  began  seriously  to  suspect  that  old 


2*]2    Marking  Time — One  Windpipe 

Louis  had  indeed  sent  him  off  on  a  wild-goose 
chase. 

As  to  the  burglary  at  Seckley  Cottage,  the  ac- 
count of  which  he  had  overheard  while  listening  at 
the  window  at  Janesford  Hall  (an  experiment  which, 
by  the  way,  he  deemed  it  unnecessary  to  repeat), 
the  police  agent  had  a  new  theory.  Why  should  it 
not  be  the  work  of  Gautil  himself,  who  had  con- 
ceived that  method  of  spiriting  away  the  paintings 
in  order  to  effect  a  secret  disposal  of  them? 

A  rogue's  cleverness,  Faverol  knew,  is  often  too 
clever,  and  ends  in  outwitting  the  warped  genius 
himself. 

However,  nothing  could  be  done  until  Gautil 
put  in  an  appearance;  and  even  then  extreme 
caution  would  be  necessary  in  dealing  with  him. 
Faverol  admitted  frankly  that  he  had  no  idea  how 
he  would  proceed;  and  that  being  so,  he  did  the 
next  best  thing  possible:  he  settled  down  philo- 
sophically to  "sit  tight.'' 

Meanwhile,  in  spite  of  his  doubts,  he  would  keep 
a  watchful  eye  on  George  Heron  and  Mrs.  Auber- 
tin,  trusting  in  luck  that  they  would  not  leave  the 
neighbourhood  prematurely,  and  thus  place  him, 
Faverol,  in  the  dilemma  of  not  knowing  whether  to 
follow  them  or  to  stay  behind. 

Tf  that  happened,  the  police  agent  acknowledged 


Marking  Time — One  Windpipe    273 

ruefully  that  he  would  have  to  consider  the  advis- 
ability of  sharing  his  secret  with  one  of  his  pro- 
fessional brethren,  English  or  French ;  and  that  he 
particularly  hoped  to  avoid,  until  he  had  gathered 
proof  positive. 

George  Heron  certainly  seemed  in  no  hurry  to 
cut  short  his  visit  to  Janesford  Hall.  Of  that 
individual  it  was  quite  easy  to  obtain  plenty  of 
information. 

The  Hon.  Trevor's  guest  and  his  doings  were  in 
everybody's  mouth,  for  Heron  showed  himself 
freely  and  was  open-handed  and  genial,  almost 
" hail-fellow-well-met"  with  all  and  sundry.  He 
shot  and  fished  with  Wyer,  or  rambled  about  the 
country  by  himself  what  time  the  host  was  occu- 
pied with  his  duties  on  the  estate. 

None  of  the  surrounding  gentry  called  upon  him, 
for  it  was  understood  that  Heron  had  expressed  a 
desire  for  quiet,  his  exceptions  socially  consisting 
of  afternoon  teas  and  dinner  at  Seckley  Cottage  in 
company  with  Wyer.  On  these  occasions  Heron 
met  Mrs.  Aubertin.  Apparently  the  two  were 
strangers. 

Of  course,  said  the  gossips,  Heron  knew  of  the 
Hon.  Trevor's  attraction  for  the  pretty  lady  at  the 
cottage,  and,  like  a  decent  chap,  obligingly  took  on 
the  job  of  "playing  gooseberry." 
18 


274    Marking  Time — One  Windpipe 

Here  it  may  be  said  that  the  self-constituted 
matchmakers  were  not  over  and  above  satisfied 
with  the  way  things  were  going  with  regard  to  the 
young  couple;  but,  though,  by  some  mysterious 
instinct  of  their  kind,  they  had  realised  that  the 
course  of  love  was  not  running  altogether  smoothly, 
they  took  comfort  in  these  visits  of  the  two  men 
to  Seckley  Cottage,  and  hopefully  went  on  wag- 
ging their  heads  and  tongues,  for  "a  maid  in  love 
was  alius  queer  and  contrary,"  said  the  wiseacres. 

The  weather  still  kept  extraordinarily  fine  and 
warm;  and  one  afternoon  Faverol,  happening  to 
be  near  the  Seckley  boathouse,  espied  Heron  set 
off  down-stream  alone  in  a  boat  with  Mrs.  Aubertin. 

Faverol  followed  leisurely  along  the  river  bank. 
He  half  hoped  he  might  get  an  opportunity  of 
overhearing  a  t&te-a-tete,  perhaps,  upon  the  island. 
But  in  this  the  police  agent  was  disappointed. 
Heron  was  merely  escorting  the  lady  back  to  her 
lodgings ;  for,  after  disembarking  under  the  big  oak 
at  Folley  Point,  he  was  out  of  Faverol' s  sight  just 
long  enough  to  make  a  quick  return  journey 
through  the  belt  of  wood  to  Penny  Farm. 

When  he  reappeared,  he  at  once  entered  the 
boat  and  pulled  up-stream  again.  It  caused 
Faverol  some  amusement  to  note  that  in  spite 
of  his  muscular  arms  Heron  was  compelled  to 


Marking  Time — One  Windpipe    275 

attack  the  long  island  ford  twice  before  gaining  the 
mastery.  It  has  already  been  said  that  the  little 
police  agent  habitually  found  humour  in  small 
things.  Faverol's  keen  eyes  also  noted  that  the 
man  in  the  boat  was  none  too  pleased  at  his  pre- 
liminary failures. 

Mrs.  Aubertin  spent  a  great  deal  of  her  time 
with  Mrs.  Gautil.  The  two  ladies  appeared  to  have 
formed  a  strong  attachment ;  and  it  was  said  that 
Mrs.  Gautil  had  unavailingly  pressed  her  friend  to 
transfer  her  abode  to  Seckley  Cottage;  for,  Mrs. 
Pountney's  motherly  "coddling"  notwithstanding, 
Mrs.  Aubertin  looked  far  more  of  an  invalid  than 
when  she  first  arrived  at  Penny  Farm.  She  wore 
an  "unhappy"  air,  which  was  a  source  of  sincere 
and  unselfish  worry  to  the  Pountneys,  who  had 
become  quite  fond  of  their  lodger. 

She  brooded  when  alone;  and,  on  the  night 
after  she  had  been  escorted  back  to  the  farm  by 
Heron,  Mrs.  Pountney  had  been  awakened  by 
sounds  of  distress.  On  going  into  Mrs.  Aubertin' s 
room,  she  had  discovered  her  kneeling  at  the  low 
window-sill,  clad  only  in  her  dainty  white  night 
attire  just  as  she  had  sprung  from  her  bed,  and 
weeping  with  complete  abandon. 

The  lattice  window  was  wide  open,  the  blind 
drawn  up,  and  a  cold,  clear  moon  looked  pitilessly 


276    Marking  Time — One  Windpipe 

upon  as  pathetic  a  scene  as  it  is  possible  to  con- 
ceive. The  kindly  old  woman's  first  instinct  was 
to  close  the  window  and  draw  down  the  blind; 
then  she  set  about  the  task  of  coaxing  the  poor 
distraught  lady  back  to  bed  and  soothing  her  to 
sleep. 

It  is  not  given  to  us  to  know  what  transpired 
in  that  midnight  hour;  perhaps  Mrs.  Pountney 
learned  nothing ;  perhaps  she  learned  all  she  wanted 
to  know  by  instinct — whatever  the  case,  gossip 
though  she  was  by  nature  and  by  habit,  Mrs. 
Pountney  kept  her  knowledge  rigidly  to  herself. 

But  on  returning  to  her  own  connubial  feather 
bed  she  disturbed  her  slumbering  husband  ap- 
parently, it  seemed,  for  the  mere  purpose  of  inform- 
ing him  that  all  men  were  brutes.  And  it  is  to  be 
suspected  that,  in  accordance  with  the  general 
cussedness  of  things,  for  the  next  few  days  the 
burly  old  farmer  would  have  had  a  very  bad  time  of 
it  had  he  not,  from  a  wisdom  born  of  experience, 
made  a  point  of  finding  work  which  would  keep  him 
continually  out  of  doors,  and  especially  out  of  his 
wife's  kitchen. 

The  best  of  men  have  to  share  somehow  or  other 
the  penalty  of  their  less  worthy  brethren's  short- 
comings. The  reason  why  is  in  a  locked  cupboard 
for  them;  and  woman  withholds  the  key. 


Marking  Time — One  Windpipe    277 

With  one  exception,  recorded  later,  life  at  Janes- 
ford  Hall  progressed  quietly  and  without  a  note 
of  discordance.  Heron  proved  himself  an  ideal 
guest,  and  suited  himself  to  a  household  (or,  rather, 
a  moiety  of  one)   which  was  certainly  peculiar. 

He  found  himself  in  a  quaint  atmosphere  of 
splendour  and  poverty,  of  formality  and  extreme 
"easiness,"  of  subtle  pride,  and  yet  engaging 
humility. 

The  charm  of  it  all — and  especially  of  his  young 
host,  who,  despite  his  facility  for  " slang,"  per- 
sonified his  surroundings — grew  upon  Heron,  and, 
though  he  gibed  at  himself,  he  realised  that  in 
some  mysterious  way  he  was  changed. 

Once  or  twice  he  caught  himself  "play-acting" 
no  longer,  but  gazing  with  a  real  regard,  if  not 
affection,  at  the  clean,  frank,  "boyish"  man  who 
reposed  such  absolute  trust  in  him;  who,  without 
putting  it  into  words,  let  him  understand  that  he 
accepted  his  guest  as  a  "gentleman" — in  its  best 
sense — and,  therefore,  out  of  reach  of  the  faintest 
curiosity  or  suspicion. 

Of  this  there  was  a  striking  example,  which,  by 
the  way,  would  have  interested  M.  Faverol  exceed- 
ingly. It  was  an  example  also  of  Heron's  remark- 
able change  of  mental  attitude. 

It  happened  (to  be  precise,  on  the  same  night 


278    Marking  Time — One  Windpipe 

that  Mrs.  Pountney  afforded  comfort  to  her 
lodger)  that,  as  he  kept  his  customary  vigil  in 
his  sombre  bed-chamber,  Heron's  thoughts  were 
centred  upon  the  portrait  of  a  lady  in  Court  dress 
which  hung  in  the  long  gallery  on  the  floor  beneath 
him.  Heron  had  spoken  of  the  painting  to  his 
host. 

"I  take  it,  it  is  a  'Romney,'"  Heron  had  re- 
marked. 

"I  believe  so,"  Wyer  had  replied  carelessly, 
adding  more  seriously,  but  without  affectation, 
"but  it  isn't  that  which  makes  it  valuable,  so  far 
as  I  am  concerned.  Fact  is,  it  was  a  great  favour- 
ite of  my  Mater's,  though  my  guv'nor  swore  he 
could  see  nothing  in  the  bally  thing." 

"Aren't  you  afraid  of  it  being  stolen?"  Heron 
had  suggested.  "If  it  were  mine,  I  should  keep 
it  in  a  safer  place,  I  think.  Indeed,"  he  went  on 
curtly,  "  I  strongly  advise  you  to  have  it  removed. " 

Heron's  advice  had  been  inexplicable  to  himself, 
and  he  had  been  astonished  at  the  sudden  inner 
promptings  which  compelled  him  to  offer  it.  But 
Wyer  had  brushed  aside  the  matter  with  a  laugh. 

"  No, "  he  had  said,  "  somehow  that  would  be  like 
luck  going  out  of  the  house.  No.  Where  it  hangs 
it  stays.  Besides,  I  doubt  there's  half  a  dozen 
chaps  in  the  world  who  know  of  its  existence,  and 


. 


Marking  Time — One  Windpipe    279 

Janesford's  too  blessed  well-known  as  Poverty  Hall 
to  attract  burglars,  except,  p'raps,  the  road-pad- 
ding sort  who,  poor  devils,  would  probably  only 
want  to  find  their  way  to  the  larder. " 

Now,  in  the  privacy  of  his  chamber,  Heron's 
professional  instinct  warred  with  that  unaccount- 
able flicker  of  a  better  instinct  which  he  had 
thought  completely  dead  within  him.  The  por- 
trait was  valuable — £500  could  be  squeezed  out  of 
the  "little  Dutchman"  for  it.  But  could  he, 
who,  whatever  else  he  had  done  in  his  professional 
career,  had  never  betrayed  hospitality,  could  he? 
.  .  .  And,  yes,  Wyer  was  evidently  very  fond  of 
the  portrait.  ...  It  had  been  a  favourite  of  his 
mother. 

"Curse  it!"  muttered  Heron,  with  his  mouth 
awry.  "  I  am  becoming  soft.  Jean  would  want  to 
harden  me  with  an  inch  or  two  of  a  knife  blade. " 

Shortly  afterwards,  to  his  own  cynical  amuse- 
ment, he  left  his  room  and  made  his  way  silently 
down  the  wide  staircase  to  the  long  gallery. 

Outside,  the  moon  was  almost  at  the  full,  and, 
slanting  obliquely  through  the  row  of  tall  windows 
facing  the  family  portraits,  it  cast  upon  the  pol- 
ished floor  a  strongly  contrasted  succession  of  bars 
of  light  and  darkness. 

Between  two  windows,  where  it  was  pitch  black, 


280    Marking  Time — One  Windpipe 

and  opposite  the  "  Romney, "  there  was  an  old  oak 
settle.  Heron  seated  himself  and  stared  thought- 
fully at  the  painting,  of  which  he  could  barely  dis- 
cern the  main  outlines.  For  half  an  hour  he  sat 
there  motionless.  Wyer's  mother,  probably,  had 
occupied  the  same  position  many  times.  .  .  . 
What  was  it  his  young  host  had  said  about  luck? 
.  .  .  No!  the  "Romney"  should  remain  unmo- 
lested. .  .  Curse  it !     He  was  a  fool. 

Heron's  decision  wavered;  his  thoughts  refused 
to  concentrate  themselves ;  he  experienced  a  unique 
feeling  of  mental  uneasiness  and  moved  restlessly 
in  his  seat.  Then,  suddenly,  he  became  alert  and 
rigid. 

Noiselessly  as  a  ghost,  some  one — a  boy — no — a 
small  man — had  appeared  at  the  far  end  of  the 
gallery,  and  was  gliding  slowly  along  it,  stopping 
every  now  and  then  in  the  shadows  to  peer  up  at 
the  portraits. 

For  a  few  grim  seconds  Heron  watched  him 
in  silence,  then,  as  the  intruder  entered  a  bar  of 
moonlight : 

"Stand  still,  my  friend!"  Heron  commanded, 
in  a  low,  distinct  voice. 

The  little  man  crouched  down ;  his  hand  whipped 
behind  his  back  and  rose  over  his  shoulder,  i 
the  moonlight  flashed  on  bright  steel.     Thus  he 


Marking  Time — One  Windpipe    281 

remained  for  a  few  seconds,  his  chin  peaked  for- 
ward and  swaying  to  and  fro,  as  if  he  were  a  rat, 
cornered,  yet  bewildered,  because  he  could  perceive 
no  one.  Then  he  moved  swiftly  backwards,  and 
became  a  darkened  blot  in  a  deep  shadow. 

"Jean!"  Heron  said,  in  clear  tones,  in  French. 
"Come  here,  my  friend!  It  is  I,  your  leader, 
who  commands  you.  You  are  never  invisible  to 
me."  As  he  spoke,  he  rose  from  the  settle  and 
stood  in  front  of  a  window,  so  that  the  moonlight 
fell  upon  his  face. 

A  gasp  of  relief  followed  his  action;  then  Jean 
came  forward,  haltingly,  as  if  he  were  being 
dragged  from  his  concealment  against  his  will. 

"You,  guv'nor!"  he  jerked  out  in  a  whisper. 
"What  a  holy  joke!  Sacre!  What  luck!"— 
he  broke  off,  and  gave  an  uneasy  snigger  of  laugh- 
ter, which  merged  into  a  scream  of  terror  as  Heron 
leaped  at  him  and  caught  him  by  the  throat.  He 
felt  himself  irresistibly  pressed  backwards  to  the 
floor,  where  he  lay  without  power  to  move  a  limb 
under  the  weight  of  his  assailant,  whose  eyes,  not 
six  inches  away,  glared  down  into  his  own  with 
ruthless  determination. 

In  the  ensuing  deathly  silence  Heron,  with  ears 
alert,  caught  the  sound  of  soft  footfalls.  Some  one 
was  coming!     In  a  flash  he  realised  the  folly  of 


282     Marking  Time — One  Windpipe 

being  discovered  with  a  dead  man  under  him. 
The  consequent  publicity  possibly  would  be  fatal 
to  him.  He  released  the  grip  of  his  ringer  and 
thumb  from  Jean's  windpipe  and  jerked  the  little 
man  bodily  to  his  feet. 

"Run!"  he  whispered  hurriedly.  "Goto  Lon- 
don— watch  your  newspaper  for  my  orders — do 
you  understand? — watch  your  newspaper! — go, 
you  fool!" 

He  pushed  Jean  away;  and  he,  himself,  after 
quickly  disarranging  his  dinner  jacket  and  collar 
and  tie,  subsided  to  the  floor  and  lay  still.  With 
his  hands  to  his  throat  Jean  gasped,  hesitated, 
then,  hearing  an  ejaculation  of  astonishment  at 
the  top  of  the  gallery,  and  seeing  a  figure  running 
towards  him,  he  turned  and  fled  whence  he  had 
first  come. 

The  newcomer  sprinted  down  the  gallery  in  pur- 
suit; but  Heron,  rising  unsteadily  to  his  feet, 
contrived  to  stumble  against  him,  and  before  he 
could  regain  his  balance  he,  too,  was  grappled  and 
overborne  to  the  floor. 

For  a  few  moments  the  two  men  struggled 
ineffectually.     Suddenly  Heron  sprang  away. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  cried,  feigning  absolute 
astonishment,  "it's  you!" 

1 '  What !    That  you,  Heron ? ' '  Wyer  gasped  out 


Marking  Time — One  Windpipe    283 

in  very  natural  annoyance.  "Hang  it  all! — yes, 
it's  me.  Who  the  deuce  did  you  think  I  was?" 
rising  to  his  feet  and  fumbling  at  the  buttons  of  his 
pyjamas,  which  had  been  burst  open. 

"Hanged  if  I  know.  All  I  do  know  is  that  IVe 
been  trying  to  hold  some  one  for  the  last  five 
minutes,  but  he  got  me  a  jab  in  the  wind  and  dazed 
me  for  a  bit ;  then,  I  suppose,  you  bumped  into  me, 
and  I  went  at  it  again." 

"  My  golly !  We  are  a  pair  of  mugs.  Well,  come 
on !  Let's  after  the  beggar.  I  saw  him.  He  can't 
have  got  far —  Hullo!  old  man —  Oh!  I  say! 
hang  it!  Hurt?" — for  Heron  was  bending  down 
with  his  hands  compressing  his  middle  as  if  in  pain. 

"No-o  .  .  .  I'm  all  right.  A  bit  queer  ....  I 
can't  run  ....  You  go  after  the  brute.  I'll  man- 
age right  enough." 

"Not  I.  Let  the  beggar  go.  Here,  old  man," 
he  inquired  anxiously,  "like  me  to  fetch  a  spot  of 
brandy?" 

"Not  a  bad  idea,"  murmured  Heron.  "But, 
confound  it!  I'm  not  an  old  woman.  I'll  get  it 
myself.  You  go  after  that  chap."  Heron  stood 
upright  and  made  a  poor  show  of  walking  by  him- 
self. 

"Not  I,"  reiterated  Wyer  with  decision.  He 
linked  his  arm  with  Heron's,  and  assisted  him 


284    Marking  Time — One  Windpipe 

slowly  from  the  gallery  and  downstairs  to  Wyer's 
snuggery. 

There,  Wyer  lighted  a  lamp,  and  soon,  under  the 
influence  of  a  little  brandy,  Heron  recovered. 

"Well!"  he  ejaculated  presently  with  disgust, 
"I'm  not  proud  of  myself." 

"Oh!  I  don't  see  that,"  Wyer  replied,  picking 
up  a  striped  sofa-rug  and  flinging  it  like  a  shawl 
around  his  shoulders.  "A  tap  on  the  bellows  will 
knock  any  man  out." 

"Yes;  but  that  chap! — did  you  see  him?" 

"Just  a  glimpse.     A  little  beggar,  wasn't  he?" 

"  It  struck  me  he  was  tall  and  lathy.  Whatever 
he  was,  he  was  odoriferous.     Pah!" 

"Well;  it  doesn't  matter,"  Wyer  remarked; 
"I  suppose  he's  got  away  by  now.  He'd  hardly 
stay  inside  if  he  could  help  it.  Anyhow,  I'm 
going  to  light  a  pipe  and  wander  round  the  place. 
You  slip  off  to  bed,  old  man." 

"No.  I'll  tackle  a  smoke,  too;  a  cigarette, 
I  think." 

"Wonder  where  he  got  in?" 

"Same  way  he's  gone  out,"  Heron  replied. 
He  crossed  the  room  and  pulled  aside  the  window 
curtains.  "Ah!  I  thought  so,"  he  remarked. 
"Window's  open.  He  got  in  here,  right  enough. 
You  see,  I  was  smoking  a  cigar  at  my  bedroom  win- 


Marking  Time — One  Windpipe    285 

dow — I'm  a  rotten  bad  hand  at  turning  in — and 
I  thought  I  saw  someone  come  through  the  yew 
hedge  and  slip  across  the  terrace  just  underneath 
here.  I  wasn't  quite  sure;  it  was  a  queer  mixture 
of  light  and  shade  outside.  Anyhow,  your  dogs 
were  barking  rather  excessively,  so  I  thought  I'd 
see  if  anything  were  wrong." 

"Why  the  deuce  didn't  you  give  me  a  shake 
up?"     Wyer  interrupted. 

"  Oh !  it  was  possible  my  eyesight  had  tricked  me. 
Besides,"  Heron  added,  "I've  been  used  to  tackle 
jobs  of  this  kind  on  my  own  hook  all  my  life.  And 
that's  why  I  said  I  wasn't  proud  of  myself  just 
now.  Well,"  he  went  on,  "when  I  got  outside 
this  door  I  heard  some  one  moving  about  behind 
me;  and,  evidently,  he  heard  me;  and,  as  I  had  cut 
off  his  retreat,  he  bolted  upstairs.  We  played 
cat  and  mouse  for  a  little  time ;  then  he  made  a  bad 
move  and  got  into  the  gallery.  I  chased  him  half- 
way down  it,  but  the  wily  brute  dropped  in  front  of 
me,  and  I  went  sprawling  over  him.  I  think  I  trod 
on  his  hand — anyway  he  yelled " 

"Yes,"  Wyer  broke  in.  "I  heard  that.  The 
dogs  woke  me  first.     They're  still  at  it  in  spasms. " 

"But  I  got  him,"  Heron  continued.  "Or, 
rather,  I  didn't  get  him.  He  was  a  wiry  cus- 
tomer." 


286    Marking  Time — One  Windpipe 

Heron  laughed  a  little  ruefully;  then  he  leaned 
out  of  the  window.  "I  say,"  he  called  to 
his  host  presently.  "Come  here.  Our  man's 
gone." 

Wyer  joined  him  at  the  window,  and  together 
they  looked  out.  In  the  bare  soil  of  the  flower 
border  below,  plainly  visible  in  the  brilliant  moon- 
light, were  two  deep  footmarks  such  as  a  man's 
heels  would  make  had  he  leaped  recklessly  from  the 
window. 

"H'm,"  said  Wyer.  "He  wouldn't  be  such  a 
fool  as  to  make  that  mess  getting  in.  He's  gone 
right  enough.  Gosh!  he  must  be  a  cool  hand  to 
tackle  a  job  in  this  moonlight.  Well,"  he  added, 
drawing  within  the  room.     "What's  next?" 

"Police,  eh?"  suggested  Heron. 

"I  suppose  so." 

"  Beastly  nuisance  this  time  of  night.  A  lot 
of  questions  and  a  lot  of  measurements  and 
notes  in  a  constable's  pocket-book,  and  all  pro- 
bably for  the  sake  of  a  tramp,  who  equally  pro- 
bably got  nothing  but  a  bad  fright.  I  was  maul- 
ing his  whiffy  person  long  enough  to  be  sure  he'd 
got  no  boodle  about  him.  Queer,  this  coming  on 
the  top  of  our  talk  about  burglars,  eh?" 

"H'm,  yes,"  Wyer  admitted  thoughtfully.  "I 
say,  though!     I  wonder  if  he  was  after  the  'Rom- 


Marking  Time — One  Windpipe    287 

ney.'  That  would  be  queerer  still  coming  on  the 
top  of  the  Seckley  Cottage  burglary!" 

" Coincidence,' '  Heron  replied.  "Apart  from 
the  fact  that  I  don't  believe  in  that  burglary,  this 
chap  wasn't  after  pictures.  Judging  by  the  smell 
of  him,  he  was  of  the  sort  you  mentioned — wanted 
the  larder." 

"Think  so?  I  dare  say  you're  right.  And  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  doubt  if  a  swell  cracksman  would 
have  chosen  a  night  like  this.  Anyway,  I'm  going 
to  leave  it  till  morning.  Meanwhile,  old  man, 
you  get  to  bed.  I  suppose  you  won't  want  a  night- 
light,  eh?"  Heron  joined  in  the  laugh.  "I'm 
going  there  myself  as  soon  as  I've  had  a  look  round. 
I'd  better  see  if  the  Barnfields  are  all  right,  though 
I  believe  they'd  sleep  through  the  crack  of  doom." 

"I'll  come  with  you,"  Heron  insisted.  "Possi- 
bly there  may  be  more  than  one  in  the  job ;  and  if 
one  is  still  quartered  temporarily  on  you,  we  may  as 
well  lay  hold  of  him." 


CHAPTER  XII 

GASPARD  REGAINS  WHAT  HE  IMAGINED  HE 
HAD  LOST 

RIGHT  0!"  Wyer  agreed.  "Come  on, 
then." 

The  search  party  drew  blank.  Beyond  what 
they  already  knew,  they  could  discover  no  signs 
that  an  intruder  had  been  within  the  mansion. 
And  as  Wyer  had  said,  the  Barnnelds'  repose  had 
been  undisturbed. 

After  breakfast,  having  been  notified  of  the 
occurrence,  a  police  sergeant  arrived  upon  the 
scene;  he  did  ask  many  questions,  and  he  did  take 
measurements  of  footmarks  and  other  details;  all 
of  which  he  entered  duly  in  the  inevitable  note- 
book. But  there,  so  far  as  this  story  is  concerned, 
the  affair  ended,  in  time  becoming  merely  a  matter 
of  memory  and  entries  in  official  archives. 

This,  perhaps,  was  a  just  retribution  upon  M. 
Faverol  for  his  selfishness  in  not  sharing  his 
secrets  with  his  professional  brethren ;  for  it  is  quite 

288 


Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss       289 

possible  that,  had  that  astute  individual  had  the 
little  sum  of  "2  plus  2"  put  before  him,  he  at  any 
rate  would  not  have  made  the  answer  come  to 
"nothing"! 

"Celeste,  dear,"  remarked  her  mother,  glancing 
at  the  ornate  ormolu  clock  on  the  mantelpiece, 
"hadn't  you  better  go  and  dress?  They  will  be 
here  in  half  an  hour  or  so." 

The  girl  made  no  reply.  She  was  standing  in  the 
bow  window,  gazing  with  troubled  eyes  out  into  the 
dusk  at  the  half-stripped  branches  of  the  copper 
beeches  swaying  in  the  wind. 

It  was  rather  a  depressing  outlook,  for  the  long 
spell  of  fine  weather  had  broken  at  last.  Through- 
out the  day  the  sky  had  been  overcast  and  gloomy, 
and  towards  evening  a  chilly  wind  had  swept  up 
the  valley,  bearing  in  its  embrace  a  fine,  drizzling 
rain,  and  the  first  unmistakable  harbinger  of  a 
dying  year. 

"Celeste,  dear!"  Mrs.  Gautil  repeated. 

"Yes,  Mother,  I  heard  you, "  she  sighed.  " I  do 
wish  they  were  not  coming." 

The  sigh  and  something  in  the  girl's  voice  made 

the  elder  woman  turn  round  in  her  chair.     But  she 

could  not  see  her  daughter's  face.     The  quaint, 

old,  walnut -panelled  drawing-room  was  in  half- 

19 


290       Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss 

light  which  a  cheerful  fire  in  the  wide,  deeply 
recessed  fire-place  seemed  to  accentuate. 

"Why,  dear?"  Mrs.  Gautil  asked  gently. 
"Don't  you  feel  well?" 

"Oh!  you  know  I'm  never  unwell,"  Celeste 
answered,  a  trifle  fretfully.  "What  I  meant  was — 
don't  you  think  we  have  seen  a  little  too  much  of 
them  lately?" 

"But,  dear,  it  is  such  a  kindness  to  Mrs.  Auber- 
tin " 

"I  wasn't  referring  to  her, "  the  girl  interrupted. 
"I  meant  Mr.  Wyer  and  his  friend." 

"But  I  thought  you  liked  them!"  her  mother 
rejoined.  "Besides,  perhaps,  it  is  a  kindness  to 
them,  too.  And  I  am  sure  they  are  both  very 
nice — and  such  gentlemen.  I  think  they  like 
coming  here." 

"Oh!  they  know  how  to  behave  themselves — I 
know  I'm  horried,  Mother  dear,"  she  burst  out, 
"but  I  cannot  get  over  my  dislike  of  Mr.  Heron. 
Yes,  he's  polite,  and  not  effusive,  and  outwardly 
kind,  and  all  that;  but  whenever  he  looks  at  me, 
whether  he's  smiling  or  grave,  I  get  the  impression 
there  is  another  man  beneath  his  smooth  exterior 
which  we  haven't  seen  yet.  ...  I  can't  help  it." 

"No,  dear,  I  suppose  not.  But  you  must  not 
let  yourself  be  governed  by  what  may  be,  and  I 


Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss        291 

think  is,  only  fancy.  And,  you  know,  I  cannot 
ask  Mr.  Wyer  without  his  guest.  Besides,  dear, 
the  little  reunions  we  have  been  having  lately 
have  been  rather  a  pleasure  to  me." 

"Yes,  I  know;  I'm  horrid,"  Celeste  said  again. 
"It  is  very  nice  here,  and  I've  been  very  happy; 
but  we  are  a  little  buried  alive,  I  suppose.  I  don't 
mean  to  be  selfish." 

It  was  Mrs.  Gautil's  turn  to  sigh.  "Yes,"  she 
admitted;  "but  we  have  every  cause  to  be  thank- 
ful. We  have  no  worries;  everything  is  provided 
for  us ;  we  are  only  women — and  your  father  wishes 
it,"  she  added,  voicing  an  old-fashioned  creed 
which  had  been  that  gentle  lady's  stand-by,  and, 
perhaps,  the  cause  of  unruffled,  if  somewhat 
passive,  happiness  throughout  her  married  life. 

Celeste  left  the  window,  and  kneeling  upon  the 
thick  bearskin  hearth-rug  stretched  out  her  hands 
to  the  blaze. 

"What  is  Father?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

"What  a  funny  question!" 

"Is  it?  Oh,  I  don't  know!  Lately,  I've  rather 
wondered." 

"Well,  dear,  I  don't  know  any  more  than 
yourself.  He  is  what  is  called  a  'financier';  but 
what  that  is  I  really  cannot  say.  I  have  never 
worried  him  with  questions,  and  I  think  he  appreci- 


292        Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss 

ates  it.  But  he  has  hinted  to  me  that  he  intends 
to  retire  soon;  and  from  what  he  said  to  me  re- 
cently, I  rather  imagine  he  has  ideas  of  leaving 
this  place,  and  is  glad  Lord  Janesford  would  not 
sell  it  to  him." 

The  girl  looked  up,  dismay  in  her  eyes.  "Oh!" 
she  exclaimed.  "Oh!  I — "  Then  she  broke  off, 
and  turned  her  head  away. 

Mrs.  Gautil  smiled  with  tender  understanding, 
and  wisely  forebore  to  make  further  remark. 

"When  do  you  expect  Father  again?"  Celeste 
inquired  presently. 

"I  don't  know,  dear,"  her  mother  replied 
patiently.  "He  said  he  should  not  be  away  long 
this  time,  and  he  may  return  any  moment.  It 
will  be  nice  when  he  gives  up  business,  won't  it, 
dear?  Now,"  she  added,  brightly,  rising,  and  for 
an  instant  lightly  caressing  her  daughter's  hair, 
"we  really  must  go  and  dress,  or  we  shall  be  late; 
and  that  would  be  very  impolite.  Ring  for  the 
lights  before  you  come,  dear." 

Leaving  Celeste  staring  moodily  into  the  fire, 
Mrs.  Gautil  went  slowly  up  to  her  room  to  dress  for 
dinner.  She  was  happy,  yet  troubled;  happy 
because,  though  she  had  noticed  in  Celeste  recently 
an  unusual  "unrest"  and  (especially  in  Wyer's 
company)  a  marked  aloofness  and  constraint,  she 


Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss        293 

felt  convinced  that  her  daughter's  manner  was 
but  the  outcome  of  a  very  natural  maidenly  defence 
against  capitulation,  and  that  matters  would, 
in  course  of  time,  come  to  a  satisfactory  conclusion. 
Mrs.  Gautil  was  troubled,  because  she  was  a  good 
mother;  for  what  good  mother  can  bear  without  a 
pang  the  thought  of  her  daughter  being  taken 
from  her,  even  though  she  herself  has  every  con- 
fidence in  the  captor-to-be? 

A  few  minutes  before  half-past  seven  Mrs. 
Aubertin  arrived.  Hatt  had  been  sent  with  the 
brougham  to  fetch  her  from  Penny  Farm.  She 
looked  very  pale  as  she  went  slowly  up  the  stairs 
to  take  off  her  wraps ;  and  the  maid  who  attended 
her  thought  she  seemed  a  little  excited  and  tremu- 
lous, and  commented  on  the  fact  later  to  her  fellow- 
servants. 

But  noticing  the  maid's  covert  interest,  Mrs. 
Aubertin  pulled  herself  together  before  descending 
the  stairs  to  the  drawing-room,  and,  on  finding 
Wyer  and  Heron  there  chatting  with  Mrs.  Gautil, 
some  colour  came  into  her  cheeks,  and  she  greeted 
them  with  charming  vivacity,  in  strong  contrast 
to  the  almost  gauche  demeanour  of  Celeste,  who 
(it  is  to  be  feared,  wilfully  "late")  entered  just  as 
the  Chinese  gong  in  the  hall  announced  that  dinner 
was  ready. 


294       Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss 

The  meal  was  not  a  success.  Celeste  was 
distraite;  she  spoke  seldom,  and  only  replied  to  the 
conversational  efforts  of  others  in  monosyllables. 

The  harmony  of  the  party  lacked  a  note;  but 
that  note  formed,  as  it  were,  the  foundation  of  the 
chord,  and  its  absence  was  acutely  noticeable, 
though  every  one  except  the  girl  did  their  utmost 
to  impart  a  lightness  and  gaiety  to  the  occasion. 
Nor  were  matters  improved  by  an  interruption 
which  occurred  just  as  the  "sweets"  had  succeeded 
the  "game." 

Hearing  men's  voices  in  the  hall,  Mrs.  Gautil 
signalled  by  a  little  nod  to  the  maid  who  was 
waiting  at  table.  In  response  the  maid  went  to 
the  door,  and,  coming  back,  murmured  something 
into  her  mistress's  ear. 

Mrs.  Gautil  rose  at  once,  saying  in  apologetic, 
yet  obviously  pleased  tones  that  Mr.  Gautil  had 
returned  home  unexpectedly,  and  asking  her  guests 
to  excuse  her  for  a  few  moments. 

Very  shortly  she  returned  and  took  her  place 
at  the  table  again,  when  she  again  apologised  for 
the  "  commotion, "  remarking  that  her  husband 
was  somewhat  travel-stained  and  tired,  and  would 
have  his  dinner  alone,  but  would  join  them  later. 

But,  as  has  been  stated,  the  interruption  did  not 
tend  to  add  smoothness  to  the  party ;  and  all  were 


Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss        295 

relieved  when  Mrs.  Gautil  led  the  ladies  into  the 
drawing-room. 

"Queer  sort  of  position,"  Wyer  observed,  light- 
ing a  cigarette.     "No!  no  wine  for  me,  thanks." 

"Why  queer?"  Heron  asked  carelessly,  helping 
himself  to  port. 

"Eating  the  dinner  and  drinking  the  wine  of  a 
man  one  hasn't  met.  Aren't  we  a  bit  in  the  way — 
in  the  circumstances?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Heron  replied,  holding  his 
glass  up  to  the  light.  "First-rate  wine,  this.  It 
would  hardly  be  tactful  to  go  yet.  Mrs.  Gautil 
evidently  wishes  us  to  stay.  Cheer  up!"  he  added 
jokingly.  "Perhaps  Mr.  Gautil  won't  prove  so 
very  much  of  an  ogre,  after  all.  Don't  mind  my 
nonsense,  my  boy.     I  understand." 

"It's  not  the  father  who  is  worrying  me," 
Wyer  replied  gloomily.  "Hang  it!  I've  a  jolly 
good  mind  to  chuck  it  all  and  clear  out  to  the 
Colonies  again. " 

He  flung  away  his  half -consumed  cigarette,  and 
his  eyes  wandered  unconsciously  towards  the  door. 
Noticing  this,  with  fine  consideration,  Heron  put 
away  the  cigar  he  was  on  the  point  of  lighting,  and 
drained  his  glass. 

"Meanwhile,"  he  suggested,  rising  from  the 
table,   "suppose  we  join  the  ladies.     With  this 


296       Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss 

excellent  wine  on  my  palate,  I'm  not  over-keen  for 
a  cigar. " 

" Right.     I  say,  though,  we  won't  stay  late." 

"Just  as  you  like,"  returned  Heron.  "Give 
me  the  nod  when  you're  ready.  But  I  think  we 
must  wait  until  our  host  appears ;  and  then,  I  take 
it,  if  he  shows  signs  of  wanting  our  company,  we 
owe  it  to  him  not  to  appear  too  eager  to  go.  I 
expect  he'll  want  a  word — with  you,  especially." 

"Why  me?" — just  a  little  sharply. 

"Hatt's  burglary,"  Heron  replied  succinctly, 
smiling  to  himself,  for  he  perceived  that  his  com- 
panion had  for  the  moment  completely  forgotten 
that  affair,  and  was  immersed  in,  to  him,  far  more 
important  matters. 

They  entered  the  drawing-room  in  time  to  join 
the  ladies  at  coffee,  and  when  the  maid  had  retired 
with  the  tray  Heron  settled  himself  near  Mrs. 
Aubertin,  and  proceeded  to  make  himself  agree- 
able. The  remaining  group  of  three  was  not  so 
happily  constituted.  Celeste  had  ensconced  her- 
self upon  a  high  footstool  in  an  ingle-nook  under  the 
shelter  of  her  mother's  chair;  evidently  she  had 
not  shaken  off  the  moodiness,  for  she  hardly  con- 
tributed to  the  conversation  on  trivialities  which 
Mrs.  Gautil  endeavoured  to  maintain.  Wyer,  too, 
was  not  himself,  and  his  usually  jolly  countenance 


Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss        297 

wore  an  expression  as  near  sulkiness  as  his  innate 
courtesy  would  allow. 

At  last,  whimsically  despairing  of  the  situation, 
Mrs.  Gautil  asked  Heron  to  sing.  He  rose  with 
alacrity,  and  went  to  the  piano  in  an  alcove  at  the 
far  end  of  the  room,  where,  after  a  slight  pause,  he 
broke  into  a  gay  little  chansonette. 

Heron  possessed  a  voice  of  unusual  quality:  a 
high  baritone,  verging  almost  on  a  tenor,  with  a 
round  richness  delightful  to  the  ear. 

At  times,  as  it  did  while  Heron  sang  his  first 
song,  his  voice  could  ring  full  of  light-heartedness ; 
at  others  it  could  vibrate  with  passion,  with  that 
peculiar  haunting  timbre  which  somehow  seems  to 
come  from  a  heart  overflowing  with  sympathy. 
In  the  possession  of  a  young  man  it  might  have 
been  a  "dangerous"  voice,  for  few  women  could 
hear  it  and  remain  unmoved. 

It  is  astonishing,  even  in  this  enlightened  age, 
how  many  women,  young  and  old,  mistake  the 
attributes  of  the  man  for  the  man  himself ! 

Without  waiting  for  applause,  at  the  conclusion 
of  his  first  song,  Heron  drifted  into  another,  equally 
light  and  gay.  Then  he  would  have  stopped ;  but 
Mrs.  Gautil  begged  him  to  go  on. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Heron,"  she  said,  "will  you  please 
sing  us  that  charming  little  French  song  we  liked 


298       Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss 

so  much?  I  mean  the  one  which  you  composed 
yourself;  you  call  it '  EcouteV  I  think.  I  do  want 
Mrs.  Aubertin  to  hear  it.  I  meant  to  ask  you  the 
last  time  you  were  here,  but  something  put  it  out 
of  my  mind." 

In  her  corner  Celeste  moved  uneasily,  half 
opened  her  lips,  but  closed  them  and  turned  away. 
For  a  few  moments  Heron  stared  in  silence  at  the 
keyboard;  he  glanced  round  at  Mrs.  Aubertin,  a 
strange,  dreamy  expression  in  his  eyes,  but  she  kept 
her  face  averted. 

Mrs.  Gautil  alone  caught  the  look,  and  put  her 
own  construction  on  its  meaning. 

Then  Heron  turned  slowly  to  the  piano  again, 
and  pressed  down  a  few  soft,  almost  fragmentary 
chords.  Smoothly  the  voice  joined  in  on  a  low, 
sustained  note — it  might  have  been  the  sigh  of  a 
lover  who,  with  bursting  heart,  was  beginning  to 
plead  to  his  mistress. 

There  followed  three  verses:  one  of  tenderness, 
one  of  hope,  the  last  of  unrestrainable  passion; 
then  a  pause;  and  presently  a  single  chord  in  a 
minor  key  seemed  to  float  into  the  room — a  chord 
ineffably  sad — as  if  the  singer's  heart  had  drooped, 
all  too  conscious  that  his  pleading  was  in  vain; 
it  had  come  "too  late." 

A    brief    silence    fell    upon    the    room.     Even 


Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss       299 

Wyer,  though  he  had  not  understood  the  words, 
on  this  occasion  was  affected;  his  own  emotion 
surprised  him.  He  could  not  speak,  and,  glancing 
instinctively  at  Celeste,  something  seemed  to  swell 
within  his  breast  and  almost  stifle  him. 

Frank  tears  welled  up  in  Mrs.  Gautil's  eyes; 
possibly  because  she  was  the  one  listener  in  the 
room  who  was  happy,  she  could  afford  to  disdain 
to  suppress  her  feelings. 

It  was  Mrs.  Aubertin  who  broke  the  spell. 
She  rose  swiftly  and  stood  facing  the  alcove,  with 
one  hand  gripping  the  back  of  her  chair. 

11  Oh,"  she  cried,  "you  shouldn't — you  shouldn't! 
It  is  not  right  to  play  upon  our  feelings."  Then, 
as  Heron  swung  round  and  fixed  his  dark  eyes 
upon  her,  she  checked  herself,  flushed  red,  then 
grew  white,  and  went  on  in  an  odd  voice:  "Oh, 
but  I  could  not  help  it!  It  carried  me  away. 
How  foolish  I  am!  I — "  she  broke  off,  looking 
towards  the  door.  A  tall,  somewhat  stout  man  in 
evening  dress  had  entered  quietly.  Evidently 
he  had  been  waiting  for  the  music  to  cease  before 
coming  forward. 

The  newcomer  was  not  altogether  unprepossess- 
ing, but  his  face  was  rather  dull,  and  the  skin,  even 
in  the  soft,  advantageous  light  cast  by  the  rose- 
coloured  lamp-shades,  appeared  noticeably  sallow. 


300       Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss 

One  gained  the  impression  that  in  his  youth  he  had 
been  quite  good-looking;  and  somehow,  at  the 
first  glance  (though  the  impression  faded  later) ,  one 
instinctively  guessed  that  he  was  Celeste's  father. 

With  a  pleasant  smile  of  welcome  for  her  hus- 
band, Mrs.  Gautil  rose  to  effect  the  necessary 
introductions. 

"  Oh,  that  is  right ! "  she  said  gaily.  "  Sebastien ! 
Let  me  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Aubertin " 

But  Mrs.  Aubertin  had  fainted. 

Heron,  who  had  noticed  her  swaying,  ran 
forward  quickly  and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 
He  let  her  sink  gently  to  the  floor,  and  dropped  on 
his  knees  beside  her. 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,"  he  said  in  quiet  tones, 
which  gave  the  others  instant  confidence  in  him. 
"Just  an  ordinary  faint.  But  the  fewer  around 
her  when  she  recovers  the  better.  Mrs.  Gautil, 
will  you  fetch  a  little  brandy?  The  rest  go,  please. 
I  am  almost  a  doctor,"  Heron  added,  thus  justi- 
fying his  own  intention  to  remain. 

For  a  few  short  moments  Heron  was  left  alone 
with  the  unconscious  woman.  He  gazed  fixedly  at 
the  white  face;  his  eyes  dilated,  as  if  he  were 
suffering  intense  physical  pain.  He  wavered — 
then  suddenly  he  bent  down  and  kissed  her  full 
upon  the  lips ! 


Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss        301 

While  Mrs.  Aubertin  was  being  attended  to, 
Celeste  had  hastened  upstairs  to  arrange  her  own 
room  for  the  immediate  use  of  the  invalid.  With- 
out being  told,  the  girl  realised  that  her  mother 
would  not  allow  their  guest  to  go  back  to  the  farm 
that  night.  Meanwhile  Gautil  took  Wyer  back 
to  the  dining-room,  where  he  at  once  went  into 
the  subject  of  "Hatt's  burglary."  Hatt,  he 
said  conclusively,  though  usually  a  first-rate 
servant,  was  at  times  a  fool  and  a  trifle  officious. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Gautil,"  Wyer  replied,  somewhat 
bluntly,  for  he  thought  that  he  owed  it  to  his  host 
to  speak  out;  "yes,  but  I  did  see  three  frames 
from  which  the  canvases  seemed  to  have  been  cut, 
so  there  was  some  excuse  for  your  man.  Besides, 
when  you  did  not  arrive — in  view  of  the  telegram, 
you  know " 

"Well,  yes,"  Gautil  interrupted,  "I  was  at 
fault  in  not  wiring  again  to  say  I  was  detained. 
Yes — yes — Hatt  was  right  to  be  a  little  suspicious 
at  first.  Perhaps  I  am  wrong  in  putting  all  the 
blame  on  him.  But  he  need  not  have  made  such 
a  fool  of  himself  afterwards. 

"As  for  the  paintings,"  he  went  on,  with  a 
laugh,  "I  had  taken  them  away  with  me.  I  was 
trying  to  dispose  of  them  privately.  They 
were  'copies' — and  not  very  good  ones — of  some 


302        Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss 

rather  famous  pictures.  The  edges  of  canvas 
you  noticed  were  the  remains  of  former  daubs 
cut  out  to  make  temporary  homes  for  the 
copies. 

"The  whole  affair  is  very  simply  explained;  but 
when  you  realise  what  a  fuss  might  have  been 
made,  you  will  appreciate  the  hope  expressed 
in  my  letter  that  you  would  not  discuss  it. " 

"Yes,  of  course,"  Wyer  agreed;  though  in  his 
heart  of  hearts  he  was  not  quite  satisfied  even 
now,  for  Hatt  had  declared  other  articles  to  be 
missing.  "But,"  he  added,  "I  think  it  is  only 
right  to  confess  that  I  asked  Mr.  Heron's  advice  in 
the  matter.  Even  in  the  face  of  your  letter,  I 
was  a  bit  puzzled  what  was  my  duty." 

"Mr.  Heron!"  Gautil  replied,  frowning  slightly. 
"And  what  did  he  advise?" 

"Oh,"  Wyer  answered,  "he  took  your  view — 
I  mean,  he  advised  me  to  keep  my  mouth  shut. 
At  any  rate,  no  harm  has  been  done.  He's  not  a 
man  to  gossip." 

Wyer's  host  somewhat  pointedly  changed  the 
subject ;  and  when  Heron  entered  the  room  shortly 
afterwards  with  a  report  concerning  the  invalid, 
Gautil  led  his  guests  to  the  old-fashioned  hall  and 
politely  insisted  on  their  settling  down  upon  the 
luxurious  lounges  grouped  under  the  wide  stair- 


Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss       303 

case  and  chatting  with  him  over  cigars  and 
whiskies  and  sodas. 

Gautil  made  himself  very  pleasant;  clearly,  he 
was  a  man  of  the  world  who  knew  what  he  was 
talking  about.  He  inquired  politely  after  Wyer's 
father,  Lord  Janesford,  and  spoke  of  the  pleasure 
life  at  Seckley  Cottage  had  given  to  Mrs.  Gautil 
and  Celeste.  In  Heron,  at  first,  he  evinced  just 
the  right  amount  of  interest  due  to  him  as  Wyer's 
friend;  a  man  he  might  or  might  not  meet  again; 
but  on  learning  how  the  two  friends  had  become 
acquainted,  Gautil  appeared  at  odd  moments  to 
scrutinise  his  older  guest  a  trifle  more  intently 
than  was,  perhaps,  good  breeding. 

"You  have  travelled  a  good  deal,  then?"  he 
inquired  of  Heron  presently.  "Are  you  Austra- 
lian— a  Colonial — may  I  ask?" 

"Yes,  and  no,"  Heron  replied,  laughing  lightly. 
"I'm  a  'home  bird,'  and,  unlike  my  friend  here,  I 
was  uncommonly  glad  to  return  to  my  native  land. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  when  I  met  Wyer  on  board  the 
Orassa  I  had  just  come  from  Noumea."  He 
stopped,  and  sipped  his  whiskey.  Somewhat 
abruptly  Gautil  also  raised  his  glass,  and  Heron 
noticed  that  on  the  hand  which  clasped  the  glass  a 
white  weal  stood  out  plainly  on  the  apex  knuckle  of 
the  little  finger! 


304       Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss 

"Ah!  Noumea !"  Gautil  said,  putting  down 
his  glass  and  speaking  in  nonchalant  tones.  "No- 
thing much  of  interest  there,  I  take  it?" 

"No.  I  was  glad  enough  to  get  out  of  it," 
Heron  replied.  "I  had  business  there  with  the 
Government — a  mining  matter,  partly — nickel, 
you  know.  But  the  Government  at  the  time  had 
their  hands  full  with  the  native  insurrection,  and 
had  no  time  to  attend  to  me ;  so  in  the  end  I  left  in 
disgust  without  completing  my  business." 

"From  what  I  learned  while  I  was  in  the  Colo- 
nies, and  recently  from  you,"  Wyer  put  in,  "there 
must  be  a  good  many  others  in  New  Caledonia  who 
would  be  jolly  glad  to  be  able  to  follow  your  ex- 
ample— poor  devils." 

"The  convicts?"  Heron  inquired.  "No  doubt 
you're  right.  But,  luckily  for  the  world,  they 
cannot.    Those  I  saw  were — well — hardly  human." 

"Are  there  any  known  instances  of  escape?" 
Gautil  asked  carelessly. 

Heron  flicked  the  ash  from  his  cigar.  "I  doubt 
if  escape  is  practicable.  Such  a  deuced  lot  of  salt 
water  between  them  and  liberty, "  he  added. 

"Oh!  I  don't  know,"  Wyer  objected;  "I'm 
open  to  bet  it  could  be  worked — given  friends 
outside,  money,  and  opportunity.  The  only  diffi- 
culty I  can  see  would  be  to  find  means  of  communi- 


Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss       305 

cation.  I  don't  suppose  the  poor  devils  ever  hear 
the  postman's  rat-tat  while  they're  eating  their 
breakfasts,  eh?" 

"  Hardly, "  replied  Heron  amusedly;  then,  as 
an  afterthought,  "but,  jokes  apart,  it  is  easy 
enough,  apparently,  to  devise  a  means  of  communi- 
cation. I  heard  of  a  case  in  point,  where  a  well- 
known  convict  in  New  Caledonia  got  outside  news 
through  a  priest. " 

"A  priest!"  Wyer  cried. 

Heron  nodded.  ' '  It  was  rather  extraordinary, ' ' 
he  went  on.  "It  appears  that  for  many  years  some 
one  in  Paris  was  in  the  habit  of  sending  anonym- 
ously to  this  priest,  who,  by  the  way,  was  a  mission- 
ary of  sorts,  large  consignments  of  religious  books 
to  be  distributed  among  the  convicts.  To  the  con- 
vict I  have  in  my  mind,  however,  the  books,  when 
they  chanced  into  his  hands,  were  merely  a  code." 

"A  code!"  Gautil  broke  in  with  polite,  though 
careless,  interest.  "You  mean  a  kind  of  news- 
paper?" 

"More  exciting  than  that.  Plans  for  escape,  I 
believe, "  Heron  replied. 

"Escape,"  Gautil  rejoined,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "Did  the  fellow  escape?  You  said 
just  now  escape  was  impossible. " 

"Did  I!"   Heron  observed.     "Nothing  is  im- 


306       Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss 

possible.  In  the  case  I  am  speaking  of,  escape 
certainly  was  attempted.  At  all  events,  my  con- 
vict did  manage  to  elude  the  surveillance  of  the 
authorities,  and  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  at  the 
same  time  two  others  were  missing  from  other 
parts  of  the  island.  But  what  became  of  them  all 
appears  to  be  a  mystery.  Eaten  by  cannibals 
very  likely.  I  shouldn't  like  to  say  that  the  three 
got  right  away  from  the  island,  you  know. " 

"Two  others!"  Gautil  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  a  coincidence!"  Heron  replied  lightly. 

Outwardly  losing  all  interest  in  the  subject, 
Gautil  leant  back  against  the  cushions  and  re- 
placed his  cigar  between  his  teeth.  The  trifling 
action  was  none  too  adroitly  performed,  and  a 
peculiarly  sardonic  smile  crossed  Heron's  face. 

"I  wonder  if  it  was  coincidence,"  Wyer  put  in. 

"I  really  couldn't  say,"  Heron  answered  in  off- 
hand tones.  Then  his  interest  also  seemed  to 
flag. 

But  Wyer  was  still  keen  on  the  subject. 

"By  Gad!"  he  ejaculated, "the  code  dodge  was 
cute.  As  for  being  eaten  by  cannibals — I  don't 
see  why.  If  the  beggars  could  'vamoose'  into  the 
bush  and  get  to  a  spot  arranged  in  the  code  mes- 
sage, it  would  be  possible  to  get  clear  of  the  island. 
What  price  a  vessel  chartered  for  the  purpose? 


Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss        307 

"There  are  plenty  of  South  Sea  schooner  skip- 
pers who  would  tackle  jolly  harder  jobs  than  that. 
I  heard  of  one,  though  he's  dead  now  (that  reminds 
me;  I'll  tell  you  presently) — 'Near-enough-Black,' 
they  called  him,  an  awful  scamp,  but  dead  straight 
in  a  deal;  he  would  have  done  it,  hands  down." 

"  Black!"  Heron  exclaimed  quickly.  "That 
hoary  old  sinner  dead!  He's  a  well-known  char- 
acter out  there.  Black  didn't  peg  out  in  his  bunk, 
I'll  wager." 

"You're  right  there,"  Wyer  went  on.  "But 
let  me  get  it  off  my  chest.  Coming  on  the  top 
of  your  yarn  about  escaped  convicts,  it  strikes  me 
as  being  rather  rum.  I  got  my  information  from 
a  Sydney  newspaper  a  pal  out  there  sends  me 
regularly,"  he  prefaced. 

"Well,  according  to  the  paper,  one  night  last 
April,  'Near-enough-Black'  brought  his  schooner, 
the  Coal  Sack,  into  Sydney  harbour  and  anchored 
in  Watson's  Bay  to  wait  till  morning.  Morning 
came,  no  schooner — she'd  vanished;  and  deuce 
could  any  one  say  where!  Well,  not  long  ago — I 
can't  give  exact  dates — another  schooner  came 
into  Sydney. 

"She  had  been  dismasted  somewhere  in  the 
South  Seas,  and  had  been  overdue  some  months. 
The  skipper  of  her  reported  that  he  had  run  across 


308        Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss 

the  Coal  Sack,  damaged  in  the  same  storm  and  on 
the  point  of  sinking.  There  was  nobody  on  board 
her  but  one  Kanaka,  and  he  was  badly  hurt  and  a 
bit  off  his  head. 

"He  died  soon  after  being  rescued,  but  before 
he  pegged  out  he  spun  a  rambling  yarn  about  Black 
picking  up  three  naked  white  men  from  some  island 
or  other  and  bringing  them  to  Sydney.  There,  he 
said,  Black  had  rowed  the  three  men  ashore, 
then  come  back  to  the  schooner,  and  settled 
down  to  a  big  'drunk.' 

"Later  in  the  night,  the  Kanaka  and  his  mate — 
there  were  two  aboard  the  Coal  Sack  then — had 
found  Black  lying  on  deck  aft,  with  a  knife  in  his 
throat.  In  a  blue  funk  that  they'd  get  hung  for 
the  job,  the  Kanakas  had  slipped  anchor  and  got 
out  to  sea;  and,  until  she  was  found,  the  Coal  Sack 
had  been  wandering  here,  there,  and  everywhere 
about  the  blessed  South  Sea  Ocean.  What  d'you 
say  to  that  for  a  yarn,  eh? "     Wyer  asked  eagerly. 

"Look  here!  if  it's  true,  why  shouldn't  the  three 
men  Black  picked  up  be  the  three  convicts?"  he 
stopped. 

Gautil  had  risen  abruptly,  and  turned  away  as  if 
to  greet  his  wife,  who  had  come  quietly  downstairs 
into  the  hall. 

"Mrs.  Aubertin  is  better, "  she  announced,  "but 


Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss       309 

she  is  not  quite  herself  yet.  She  does  not  wish  us 
to  send  for  a  doctor.  Celeste  is  with  her,  and  asks 
me  to  offer  her  apologies  for  not  coming  down 
again.  Sebastien,  will  you  please  send  Hatt  with 
a  message  explaining  matters  to  the  Pountneys?,, 

"Oh!  don't  bother  to  send  Hatt,"  Wyer  broke 
in.  "I'll  drive  home  round  that  way.  I'm 
sure  Heron  won't  mind,  and  it  will  do  Primrose  a 
lot  of  good. " 

After  some  slight  reluctance  Mrs.  Gautil  ac- 
cepted the  offer;  and  presently,  perceiving  that 
their  hostess  was  somewhat  constrained,  Wyer 
and  Heron  took  their  departure. 

"Sebastien,  dear,"  said  his  wife  anxiously, 
when  she  was  alone  with  her  husband,  "you 
don't  look  at  all  well.     Is  anything  the  matter?" 

"I've  not  been  up  to  the  mark  lately, "  he  replied 
testily.  "I  shall  be  glad  when  I've  done  with 
business." 

"So  shall  I,  dear.  You  deserve  a  rest  from 
worry."     She  went  up  to  him  and  kissed  him. 

He  returned  the  kiss  mechanically,  yet  not  alto- 
gether without  affection.  "I  shall  be  going  away 
again  soon  for  a  few  days, "  he  said;  "then  I  shall 
forfeit  the  lease  of  this  place,  and  we  will  travel." 

"Very  well,  dear,"  his  wife  replied  patiently; 
then  timidly,  "But  Celeste " 


310       Gaspare!  Regains  His  Loss 

"Celeste  will  come  too,"  he  interrupted,  with 
decision. 

"But,  Sebastien!"  she  went  on.  "I  thought 
you  were  content  to  allow  things  to — to  go  on.  He 
is  a  very  nice  young  man;  and  if  he  is  poor,  it 
surely  doesn't  matter." 

"I  have  changed  my  mind,"  Gau  til  replied 
curtly,  adding  almost  with  a  sneer,  "and  it  pro- 
bably is  just  as  well,  for  I  do  not  suppose  Lord 
Janesford  would  ever  give  his  consent." 

Mrs.  Gautil  sighed,  and  went  slowly  upstairs  to 
her  bedroom.  Lord  Janesford  and  his  possible 
objections  were  nothing  to  her ;  but  the  gentle  lady 
hardly  dare  contemplate  the  thought  even  of 
resistance  to  her  husband's  wishes.  For  nearly 
twenty  years  she  had  acquiesced,  without  a  mur- 
mur, in  all  his  plans,  and  the  habit  seemed  to  have 
carried  with  it  a  certain  amount  of  happiness. 
Would  she  be  compelled  to  risk  that  happiness 
now?  .  .  . 

Next  morning  Heron  announced  regretfully,  but 
firmly,  that  he  must  leave  Janesford  for  London 
by  an  early  train.  The  unexpected  decision  puz- 
zled Wyer  not  a  little ;  for,  so  far  as  he  knew,  Heron 
had  received  neither  letter  nor  telegram  which 
would  have  explained  his  reason  for  cutting  short 
his  visit  so  abruptly.     But,  as  has  been  stated, 


Gaspard  Regains  His  Loss        311 

Wyer  was  not  one  to  pry  into  other  people's 
private  reasons  or  affairs.  He  believed  in  the 
wisdom  and  courtesy  of  speeding  the  parting  guest, 
and  he  made  arrangements  at  once  to  drive  Heron 
to  Beaudelay  station. 

Perhaps,  despite  his  characteristic  good-nature, 
Wyer  was  just  a  little  piqued  that  his  guest  had 
evaded  giving  a  definite  answer  to  repeated  invi- 
tations to  return  to  Janesford  in  the  future. 

But  if,  for  a  little  while,  such  a  petty  resentment 
entered  his  mind,  it  was  soon  lost,  overshadowed 
by  Heron's  last  extraordinary  remarks  to  him  as 
he  leaned  out  of  the  railway  carriage  window. 

"My  boy,"  Heron  said,  exhibiting  unusual 
feeling,  "it  is  hard  to  explain — but  I  am  in  your 
way  here  at  Janesford.  Go  back.  Seize  your 
happiness  with  both  hands.  You  know  what  I 
mean.  And,"  he  added,  as  the  train  began  to 
move,  "if  you  have  any  difficulty  with  the  father,  I 
pledge  you  my  word  I,  myself,  will  remove  it." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HONOUR  (AMONG  THIEVES) — AT  A  DISCOUNT 

TT  wanted  five  minutes  of  the  midday  hour — as 
*  some  Americans  insist  upon  putting  it — when 
a  tall,  somewhat  "distinguished"  looking  man, 
who  had  been  engrossed  all  the  morning  in  study- 
ing the  ancient  ceramics  exhibited  in  the  British 
Museum,  glanced  at  his  watch,  and  then  sauntered 
down  to  the  vast  entrance  hall. 

Pushing  open  the  swing-doors  of  the  vestibule, 
he  emerged  on  the  terrace  outside,  and  for  a  while 
stood  at  the  top  of  the  wide  steps,  watching,  in  a 
preoccupied  sort  of  way,  the  pigeons  strutting 
about  in  the  courtyard  and  on  the  grass  plots 
below.  His  was  not  an  uncommon  type :  immacu- 
lately, though  quietly  dresssed,  recently  he  had 
been  a  fairly  frequent  visitor  to  the  Museum,  and 
the  attendants — no  mean  judges  in  such  matters — 
had  casually  labelled  him  "army";  probably 
"retired,"  and,  with  equal  probability,  now 
engaged  in  collecting  material  for  "writing  a  book. " 

312 


Honour  (Among  Thieves)        313 

However,  major,  colonel,  general — or  none  of 
these — the  man  attracted  little  attention,  for  he 
bore  himself  with  that  peculiarly  British,  and 
especially  military  British  air  which  seems  to  say : 
"I  have  absolutely  no  curiosity  towards  you  and 
your  affairs,  and  I  shall  be  infinitely  obliged  if  you 
will  kindly  stifle  any  such  feeling  you  may  possibly 
entertain  towards  myself." 

After  contemplating  the  pigeons  for  some  time, 
the  individual  in  question  again  consulted  his 
watch.  It  was  nearly  five  minutes  past  twelve, 
and  he  began  to  look  about  him  more  critically. 

Quite  a  number  of  people  passed  the  man,  but 
he  barely  glanced  at  them,  his  attention  having 
become  occupied  with  his  fellow-loiterers  under  the 
facade. 

There  happened  to  be  but  two  of  these;  one,  a 
youth  leaning  against  a  pillar  and  sharing  a  bun 
with  a  few  venturesome  sparrows;  the  other,  an 
elderly  gentleman,  who,  with  his  back  turned,  was 
examining  the  ancient,  hollowed-out  tree  trunk 
which  in  former  times  served  as  a  war  canoe,  or, 
perhaps,  state  barge — it  matters  not  which — to 
some  barbarian  or  other. 

Presently  the  elderly  gentleman  turned  round, 
smiled  expectantly,  and,  with  a  gesture  which  was 
evidently  a  mannerism,  raised   his  hand  to  his 


314        Honour  (Among  Thieves) 

beard.  The  stranger  also  raised  his  hand,  almost 
as  if  he  were  saluting,  and  at  the  same  moment 
took  a  pace  forward. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  thought  I  was  not 
mistaken.     So  glad  you  managed  to  come." 

The  elderly  gentleman  laughed  pleasantly. 
"But  you  weren't  quite  sure,"  he  retorted  gaily, 
shaking  hands.  "I  fear  I  was  very  rude,  turning 
my  back  on  you,  but  I  did  not  see  you  arrive.  The 
fault  lies  with  this  curious  example  of  the  boat- 
builder's  art,  which  took  all  my  attention.  One 
can  hardly  imagine  heroes  capable  of  propelling 
it  from  Putney  to  Mortlake,  eh?  By  the  way — 
where  is  John?" 

"Unpunctual  as  ever,  I  suppose,"  returned  the 
other. 

"Well,  to  be  candid,  I  am  not  entirely  sorry," 
the  elderly  gentleman  remarked.  "I  rather 
wanted  a  few  minutes  with  you  alone.  But  I 
should  not  like  to  miss  him, "  he  added.  "  He  used 
to  be  a  '  touchy '  sort  of  fellow,  eh?  " 

"Quite  true.  But  it  can  easily  be  arranged. 
Come  across  to  my  chambers.  They  are  just  over 
the  road ;  we  can  see  these  steps  from  the  windows. 
I  agree  we  must  not  miss  him. " 

They  strolled  down  the  steps  and  out  through 
the  entrance  gates  into  the  street;  and  presently, 


Honour  (Among  Thieves)        315 

the  taller  of  the  two  men  turned  in  at  a  doorway 
and  led  the  way  up  a  flight  of  stairs  to  his  cham- 
bers. The  chambers  proved  to  be  a  typical  bache- 
lor's suite,  comfortable  enough,  without  being 
luxurious;  and  a  profusion  of  books  and  periodi- 
cals spoke  of  the  studious,  or,  it  may  be,  "dilet- 
tante" tendencies  of  the  occupier.  One  thing 
was  plain,  however:  the  chambers  were  not 
the  home,  temporary  or  otherwise,  of  a  poor 
man. 

As  soon  as  the  door  had  been  shut  the  elderly 
gentleman  seemed  to  shed  many  of  his  years; 
and  after  a  quick,  comprehensive  glance  around 
the  room,  he  nodded  approvingly. 

"Might  do  worse  than  this,  eh?"  he  remarked. 

"Somewhat,"  agreed  his  companion,  who  had 
taken  up  his  station  near  the  window,  from  which, 
as  he  had  stated,  a  view  of  the  steps  of  the  British 
Museum  was  obtainable.  "Make  yourself  at 
home,"  he  added.  "There  are  cigars  and  cigar- 
ettes on  the  mantelpiece." 

1 '  Thanks.     Keep  a  man-servant  ? ' ' 

"No.  I  meal  out.  You  can  talk  freely :  there's 
no  risk  of  being  overheard. " 

The  visitor  pulled  a  comfortable  wickerwork 
chair  near  to  the  window  and  sank  into  it  with  a 
sigh.     "Thank   goodness,"  he   said.     "I'm  tired 


316        Honour  (Among  Thieves) 

of  play-acting.  And  there's  no  need  to  keep  up  the 
1  heavy  lead  '  with  you — eh,  Kit?" 

"No,"  replied  Polliter,  seriously  enough,  "you 
can  reserve  that  for  Jean. " 

"Ah!  Jean,"  reflectively,  "we  are  going  to 
have  trouble  with  that  parishioner." 

"Will  he  turn  up,  do  you  think?" 

Gaspard,  or  Heron  (for  the  elderly  gentleman 
was  either  of  these  personages  when  it  suited  his 
convenience),  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It  remains 
to  be  seen, "  he  replied.  "  He  and  I  have  met  since 
I  shared  out  the  'little  Dutchman's'  cheque,  and 
the  interview  may  possibly  have  frightened  him." 

Polliter  swung  round  from  the  window  with  a 
puzzled  look  on  his  face.  "Met!"  he  exclaimed. 
"You  and  Jean  met! — what  the  deuce  has  the  fool 
being  doing  now?" 

"Out  on  an  affair  of  his  own, "  Gaspard  returned 
grimly.  "Squandered  all  his  share  of  the  money, 
very  likely,  and  after  more.  Unfortunately — for 
him — I  happened  to  be  a  guest  at  the  place  he 
selected  for  his  private  attempt." 

Gaspard  then  gave  a  brief  account  of  his  mid- 
night encounter  with  Jean  in  the  long  gallery  at 
Janesford  Hall.  "I  believe  I  should  have  killed 
the  dolt  if  I  had  not  been  interrupted, "  he  con- 
cluded, in  matter-of-fact  tones;  "but  I  am  glad  I 


Honour  (Among  Thieves)        317 

didn't.  Might  have  made  things  extremely  awk- 
ward for  us." 

"H'm, "  observed  Polliter,  moodily;  "it  would 
have  been  a  good  job  if  that  club,  or  spear,  or 
whatever  it  was,  had  done  its  work  thoroughly. 
He's  been  nothing  but  a  source  of  trouble  to  us.  I 
think  he's  mad." 

"So  you  remarked,  I  remember,  while  we  were 
in  the  cave.  A  bit  of  a  nightmare,  the  whole  lot  of 
it,  eh?  Well,  it's  past  and  done  with.  Luck 
has  been  with  us  so  far."  Gaspard  broke  off, 
frowning;  then:  "And  we've  another  bone  to  pick 
with  Jean.  So  serious  that  the  sooner  we  split 
the  better.  The  little  brute  knifed  Captain 
Black!" 

"What!" 

Gaspard  took  a  newspaper  cutting  from  his 
pocket  and  handed  it  to  Polliter.  "Read  that," 
he  said,  "and  see  what  you  make  of  it. " 

"Curse  it!"  muttered  Polliter  presently;  "it's 
right  enough.     That's  Jean's  work. " 

"Of  course  it  is.  After  we  separated  at  Manly 
he  purloined  a  boat  and  rowed  out  to  the  schooner. 
I  suspected  something  like  this  from  his  manner 
at  our  meeting  in  Caveen  Street.  I  had  given  my 
word  to  Black,  too — swore  on  my  luck — and  I 
don't  like  it. " 


3i8         Honour  (Among  Thieves) 

"Like  it!"  Polliter  rapped  out  with  fury.  "I 
should  think  not!  Why,  hang  him!  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  this,  not  a  soul  would  ever  have  suspected 
we  had  got  clear  of  the  island.  They  thought 
we'd  been  killed  and  eaten  by  the  natives.  And 
now  some  beast  will  put  two  and  two  together — 
and  you  know  what  that  means.  Half  the  detec- 
tives in  the  world  will  be  on  the  lookout  for  us." 

"Enough,  at  any  rate,  to  scatter  any  sense  of 
security  we  may  have  gained  so  far,"  Gaspard 
admitted. 

"Does  Jean  know  that  you  know?" 

"I  hardly  think  so.  He  wouldn't  be  likely  to 
see  the  paper  this  was  in."  Gaspard  rose,  took 
the  newspaper  cutting  from  his  companion, 
crumpled  it,  and  flung  it  into  the  fire.  Then  he 
chose  a  fresh  cigar  in  the  place  of  his  first,  which 
had  gone  out,  and  resumed  his  comfortable  attitude 
in  the  chair.     There  was  a  short  silence. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  to  him,  if  he  turns 
up?"  Polliter  inquired,  in  a  curious  way,  glaring 
out  of  the  window. 

"My  dear  Kit,  we  are  not  in  the  cave  I  men- 
tioned just  now.  And,  as  I  remarked  in  that 
cave,  we  are  bound  together  by  a  vow. " 

"Vow  or  no  vow,  you  meant  to  finish  him  at 
Janesford, "  Polliter  retorted. 


Honour  (Among  Thieves)        319 

"I  admit  that  would  have  been  foolish,"  Gas- 
pard  replied,  in  silky  tones.  "We  will  not  refer 
to  that  again,  please." 

" Sorry ! "  Polliter  said,  gruffly.  "I  take  it  back. 
Fact  is,  this  foolery  of  Jean's  has  touched  me  on 
the  raw.  I  thought  we'd  done  with — with  the 
past.  Been  too  luxurious  lately,  I  suppose" — 
bitterly.  Then:  "And  I  was  afraid  you  meant  to 
'do  him  in,'  now,  or  later.  We'd  get  'had'  over 
that." 

"I  shall  not  touch  him.  Frankly,  I  need  Jean's 
help." 

"H'm!     Looks  as  if  you're  not  going  to  get  it. " 

"If  he  doesn't  come  to-day,  I'll  put  something  in 
the  paper  that  will  soon  fetch  him" — significantly. 

Polliter  jerked  round.  "Ah!  You've  found 
Courtois!"  It  was  more  a  statement  than  a 
question. 

"I  have." 

"Well,"  Polliter  growled,  as  if  the  words  came 
with  an  effort,  "I  said  I'd  stand  by  you — and  I 
will." 

"Now  it  comes  to  the  pinch,  you  funk  it,  eh, 
Kit?" 

"So  do  you,  Andy,"  Polliter  retorted.  "You 
are  changed.  I  noticed  it  as  soon  as  you  began  to 
talk  in  here. " 


320        Honour  (Among  Thieves) 

Gaspard  half  closed  his  eyes.  "Perhaps  I  am," 
he  replied,  almost  to  himself.  Then,  as  if  in 
excuse:  "It  is  one  thing  to  plot  and  plan  and  vow 
revenge  when  one  is  in  hell;  but  when  one  gets 
out  of  hell.  .  .  .  We  were  mad  during  those  twenty- 
years,  "  he  broke  out  suddenly,  "and  we  had  the 
delusions  of  madmen;  and  who  can  wonder?  But 
now  we  have  liberty,  we — you  and  I — have  become 
sane.  It  amounts  to  this:  if  we  are  to  take  any 
revenge  worthy  of  the  name  on  Courtois  we  shall 
add  immeasurably  to  our  risks,  especially  now  that 
Black's  death  has  come  out.  It  is  common  sense; 
and  the  sooner  we  make  a  big,  final  haul,  and  split 
up  for  ever  the  better. " 

Polliter  nodded  in  agreement.  "That's  been 
my  opinion  ever  since  I  put  on  a  decent  suit  of 
clothes  again,"  he  remarked.  "But  it's  a  queer 
'turn-round'  for  you. " 

Gaspard  gave  an  uneasy  laugh.  "I  suppose 
it  is,"  he  answered.  "The  effect  of  mixing  with 
decent  people  again,  possibly.  You  and  I  cannot 
forget  we  were  born  gentlemen,  Kit — whatever 
else  the  kinks  in  our  natures  and  circumstances 
have  superimposed  upon  us.  I  thought — and  was 
glad — every  spark  of  humane  feeling  had  died  with- 
in me.  I  was  wrong.  I  would  kill  or  torture  Cour- 
tois with  relish  enough,  even  now ;  but  if  I  hurt  him, 


Honour  (Among  Thieves)        321 

I  must  hurt  others.  Yes,  I  am  changed.  Why,  I 
talked  with  Courtois  for  half  an  hour — shook 
hands  with  him;  and  if  we'd  been  in  the  middle 
of  the  Sahara  I  believe  I'd  only  have  blurted  out, 
*  I  am  Andre  Gaspard ! ' — just  to  watch  his  face. 

"Courtois  goes  in  terror  of  us,  Kit;  and  that's 
almost  revenge  enough,"  continued  Gaspard. 
"You  should  have  seen  him  wince  when  I  talked 
about  convicts  and  New  Caledonia;  and  when 
young  Wyer  gave  an  account  of  Black's  death  and 
that  Kanaka  story  of  three  men  being  picked  up 
from  a  South  Sea  island! 

"Fact  is,  we  are  in  a  hole,  Kit.  I  won't  have 
him  killed;  and  if  I  let  him  go  he'll  move  heaven 
and  earth  to  get  us  retaken,  now  that  his  suspicions 
have  been  aroused.  And  what  is  more,  if  I  let  him 
go  scot-free  I  must  break  my  vow,  and  that  means 
my  luck.     I  know  it — I'm  sure  of  it. " 

"As  far  as  I  am  concerned, "  Polliter  said,  earn- 
estly, "you  can  regard  our  compact  at  an  end." 

"Jean  won't  agree  to  that." 

"Curse  Jean!  He's  broken  faith — on  your 
own   showing.     Let   him   slide,   he  deserves  it." 

"How  much  money  have  you  left?"  Gaspard 
inquired,  abruptly. 

"About  four  hundred. " 

"That  won't  last  you  for  ever.     No!  Jean  is 


322        Honour  (Among  Thieves) 

necessary  to  us.  We  have  the  brains,  but  he  has 
the  fingers;  and  in  the  big  thing  I  have  in  my  mind 
we  shall  need  those  clever  digits  of  his. " 

"Who  is  Courtois,  Andy?"  Polliter  put  the 
question  in  some  trepidation.  His  leader  had  a 
knack  of  resenting  even  the  most  justifiable 
inquisitiveness. 

"His  name  is  Gautil, "  Gaspard  replied,  a  grim 
flicker  of  amusement  crossing  his  face.  "You 
and  Jean  relieved  him  of  three  pictures  and  other 
valuable  trifles  only  a  short  while  back. " 

Pointer's  face  was  a  study  in  amazement.  Pres- 
ently he  gave  vent  to  a  low  whistle.  "Phew!" 
he  exclaimed.  "D'you  think  Jean  suspects?  Is 
that  why  he  went  back  to  Janesford?" 

"Ah!  I  never  thought  of  that!  You  mean 
he  suspects  me! — my  good  faith!  The  little 
fiend!  .  .  .  but  what  was  he  doing  in  the  Hall?" 

"No  money — no  food.  After  the  larder," 
Polliter  replied  in  jerks.  "But,  Andy,  if  Cour- 
tois is  Gautil,  he's  a  'crook'!" 

"Yes,"  Gaspard  agreed,  "I  tumbled  to  it  be- 
cause he's  done  his  level  best  to  keep  our  little 
affair  dead  secret. " 

"I  noticed  that,  too,"  Polliter  replied;  "there 
wasn't  a  word  about  it  in  the  papers.  But  I  went 
by  the  pictures." 


Honour  (Among  Thieves)        323 

"The  pictures !" 

"Yes.  Didn't  you  recognise  them?  I  meant  to 
tell  you,  but  we  started  on  other  things. " 

"I  know  they  were  masterpieces.  I  took  your 
word  for  that — and  the '  little  Dutchman's'  cheque  " 
— with  a  laugh. 

"Yes,  but  they're  the  pictures  stolen  from  the 
Louvre  a  few  months  ago !  There's  a  full  descrip- 
tion of  them  in  that  art  periodical  on  the  table — " 
He  broke  off  in  some  astonishment,  for  Gaspard 
had  leant  back  in  his  chair  and  was  laughing 
unrestrainedly.  At  length  Gaspard  controlled 
himself. 

"I  haven't  laughed  like  that  for  over  twenty 
years,"  he  gasped.  "Gad!  but  it  does  one  good. 
He's  a  clever  fellow,  Kit,"  he  went  on  more  se- 
riously. "But  we've  scared  him.  He's  cleared 
that  museum  of  his — got  rid  of  his  collection — his 
collection!  I'll  wager  there  was  a  good  percent- 
age of  it  which  the  police  would  have  given  their 
pensions  to  get  hold  of. 

"Well,  they  won't  have  a  chance  now.  His 
wife  told  me  he  intends  putting  a  billiard  table 
in  the  room.  He'll  only  leave  what  he's  not  afraid 
for  any  one  to  see.  But  we'll  bleed  him,  Kit.  .  .  . 
Get  a  chair,  and  let  Jean  go  to  blazes  for  the 
present." 


324        Honour  (Among  Thieves) 

Polliter  did  as  he  was  bidden.  He  had  been  not 
a  little  puzzled  by  Gaspard's  curious,  "uneven" 
behaviour  throughout  the  interview;  and  he  now 
felt  distinctly  relieved  when  his  leader  suddenly 
reverted  to  the  curt,  cut-and-dried  method  of 
instruction  to  which  he  was  accustomed. 

For  nearly  half  an  hour  Gaspard  drilled  his 
subordinate  in  all  the  details  with  which  it  was 
essential  he  should  be  acquainted.  Finally,  Gas- 
pard "  commanded": 

"You  will  go  down  to  Seckley  Cottage  by  the 
6  a.m.  train  from  Paddington  to-morrow.  Insist 
on  an  interview  with  Gautil.  Intimate  that  on 
behalf  of  Lord  Janesford  you  have  come  to  offer 
Seckley  Cottage  to  Gautil  for  £5000  paid  there 
and  then — the  price  to  include  Lord  Janesford 's 
consent  to  the  marriage  of  his  son  with  Celeste 
Gautil." 

"Suppose  Gautil  refuses?"  Polliter  objected. 
"The  last  thing  he'd  want  would  be  the  publicity 
the  marriage  would  bring  him.  Besides,  in  any 
case,  he'd  make  out  the  cheque  to  Lord  Janesford. " 

Gaspard  frowned;  he  detested  being  caught 
tripping.  It  occurred  to  him  that  the  ridiculous 
omission  to  take  the  cheque  difficulty  into  con- 
sideration was  part  and  parcel  of  the  subtle  change 
he  had  undergone.     He  was  savagely  conscious 


Honour  (Among  Thieves)        325 

that  recently  his  brain  had  played  him  tricks; 
and  his  confidence  in  himself  had  received  no 
slight  shock  therefrom.  But  to  his  subordinate 
he  said  sarcastically: 

"Bah!  you  have  no  brains,  Kit.  You  will 
retort  that  certain  information  having  come  to  his 
lordship  concerning  three  valuable — er — missing — 
paintings,  he — (or  you) — would  be  extremely 
reluctant  to  be  compelled  to  pass  that  information 
on  to  those  who  would  be  only  too  eager  to  pay  for 
it.  As  for  the  cheque:  it  is  quite  possible  he  may 
have  ready  money  in  the  house;  if  not  a  cheque 
will  be  made  payable  to  '  bearer.'  It  would  not  be 
advisable — you  will  explain — for  Lord  Janesford's 
name  to  appear  in  the  matter.  If  Gautil — Cour- 
tois- — still  jibs  admit  brazenly  that  you  are  there 
on  your  own  account,  that  Lord  Janesford's  name 
was  merely  a  '  blind.'     Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,  but " 

"There  are  no  'buts.'  You  will  go" — with 
finality;  then:  "There  is  a  reward  out,  I  take  it?" 

"Twenty  thousand  francs.  Here,  I'll  get  you 
the  paper  where  I  saw  it."  Polliter  rose  to  go  to 
the  table,  but  on  the  way  he  glanced  out  of  the 
window  and  stopped.  "There's  Jean,"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

Gaspard  sprang  up  and  joined  him,  and  for  a  few 


326        Honour  (Among  Thieves) 

moments  they  watched  an  undersized,  "seedy"- 
looking  man  who  was  loitering  on  the  steps  of  the 
Museum.  Even  at  this  distance  it  could  be  seen 
that  the  fellow  was  furtively  scanning  the  passers- 
by. 

"Yes,  it's  Jean, "  Gaspard  snarled.  "Fetch  him 
in." 

Polliter  hesitated.  He  disliked  beyond  mea- 
sure the  thought  of  Jean  learning  of  his  comfortable 
quarters,  but  a  glance  at  Gaspard's  face  told  him 
that  the  old,  well-known  danger  signal  once  more 
was  flying,  and  he  at  once  picked  up  his  silk  hat 
and  left  the  room. 

Gaspard  watched  him  pass  into  the  courtyard 
of  the  Museum  and  approach  Jean.  The  gesture 
with  the  hand  for  recognition  was  given  and 
returned;  then,  after  a  short  conversation,  Polliter 
returned  with  the  little  man  lagging  at  his  elbow. 
Gaspard  smiled  grimly;  he  could  well  understand 
Jean's  reluctance  to  appear  in  his  presence. 

When  the  two  men  entered  the  room  they  found 
Gaspard  standing  in  a  domineering  attitude  before 
the  fire.  Jean  made  an  effort  to  put  on  a  jaunty 
expression,  but  he  failed  dismally,  and  at  a  motion 
from  Gaspard  he  stood  by  the  table,  nervously 
plucking  at  his  fingers.  His  eyes  were  bloodshot 
and  he  looked  "pinched  "  and  in  need  of  both  food 


Honour  (Among  Thieves)        327 

and  rest.  Polliter  closed  the  door,  and  then,  as  if 
he  had  no  further  interest,  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
settled  himself  in  the  chair  by  the  window. 

"Why  are  you  late?"  Gaspard  demanded. 

"  Just  got  here, "  Jean  rasped  out,  glancing  at  his 
boots,  which  were  dirty  and  disreputable.  "No 
money — had  to  tramp  it. " 

"What  were  you  doing  in  Janesford  Hall?" 

"Tryin'  to  warn  you,"  returned  the  little  man 
sullenly.  Then,  in  a  jerky  whine:  "Yes,  I  was. 
You  listen.  I'd  'blued'  almost  all  my  share — 
I  didn't  know  what  to  do — there  were  rabbits  and 
pheasants  in  those  woods — I  lived  on  them  for  two 
days  after  we  did  that  job,  and  it  was  a  safe  place 
to  lie  by. 

"I  spent  the  last  of  my  money  on  a  ticket  to 
Worcester — did  the  first  journey  again.  I'd  got 
as  far  as  those  big  gates  by  the  river — you  know 
the  place  I  mean — when  a  man  came  up  behind  me, 
and,  after  stoppin'  a  bit,  went  up  the  avenue.  I 
guessed  he  was  up  to  somethin',  for  he  muffled 
his  footsteps — you  know  the  way.  It  was  foggy, 
and  I  couldn't  see  him;  but  I  tracked  him  easy 
enough. 

"Well,  he  stopped  for  a  minute  or  two  in  front 
of  a  door  with  a  lantern  in  the  porch,  and  I  thought 
he  was '  straight '  after  all.     But  he  wasn't;  for  he 


328        Honour  (Among  Thieves) 

slipped  through  some  bushes  and  through  an  open- 
ing in  a  thick  hedge.  I  waited,  and  then  followed. 
I  lost  him  for  some  time. 

"  There  was  a  light  in  one  window,  and  after  a 
bit  I  saw  a  man's  head  and  shoulders  against  the 
light.  He'd  climbed  up,  and  was  listenin'  to  what 
was  goin'  on  inside.  He  was  a  fattish  little  fellow, 
and  I  could  see  the  outline  of  his  face  plainly 
enough  to  recognise  him  after,  anyhow.  Well, 
I  watched  him  till  he  dropped  from  the  window 
and  made  off  down  to  the  river,  and  I  followed 
him;  for,  thinks  I,  'he's  a  ''crook"  or  a  'tec;  and, 
anyway,  I'm  goin'  to  see  where  he  goes  now.' 

"If  he  was  a  'tec,  y'see, "  Jean  explained,  "I 
reckoned  he  was  on  the  lay  after  us  for  the  job 
we'd  just  done.  Well,  I  followed  him  till  he  got  to 
the  bridge  at  Beaudelay  and  there  he  stopped, 
talkin'  with  a  'copper.'  I  couldn't  get  very  near; 
but  at  last  I  heard  the  'copper'  call  out:  'Good- 
night, Mr.  Faver,'  and  then  I  hooked  it  myself 
back  up  into  those  woods. "  Jean  paused,  as  if  out 
of  breath. 

"Go  on,"  Gaspard  commanded,  though  with 
less  severity  of  tone.  "You  may  sit  down,  if  you 
like." 

Jean  seated  himself  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"There's  a  clearin'  high  up  in  the  woods,"   he 


Honour  (Among  Thieves)        329 

continued,  gaining  a  little  of  his  old  jaunty  assur- 
ance, "where  you  can  see  a  goodish  bit  of  what's 
goin'  on  round  about  down  below.  Well,  I  was 
lookin'  down  towards  the  river  one  afternoon, 
when  I  saw  a  boat  with  two  people  in  it ;  and  on  the 
bank,  slinkin'  after  it,  there  was  a  man.  I  got 
interested,  and  I  cut  quickly  down  to  the  river 
and  watched  from  behind  a  bush. 

"Well,  guv'nor" — Gaspard  let  the  forbidden 
term  pass — "you  were  in  the  boat — with  a  woman. 
I  wasn't  sure  at  first,  but  I  was  when  I  saw  your 
bare  arms.  I've  seen  'em  and  felt  'em  often 
enough  to  know " 

"Go  on!"  Gaspard  rapped  out. 

"Well,  the  little  fellow  watchin'  you  had  a 
fishin'  rod,  but  he  wasn't  fishin'  for  fish.  He  was 
after  you — and  I  could  almost  swear  he  was  the 
man  I'd  seen  at  the  window — Mister  bloomin' 
Faver!  He  followed  you  back  up-stream — and  I 
followed  him.  You  cut  up  to  the  house  Kit  and  I 
had  'worked,'  and  I  cut  up  slowly  through  the 
woods. 

"You  passed  me  a  bit  later  goin'  along  the  road 
in  a  dog-cart  with  another  man,  and,  as  I'd  seen 
two  men  in  a  dog-cart  turn  out  of  the  big  gates  of 
that  avenue  earlier  in  the  afternoon,  I  made  a  guess 
where   you  were    livin'.     Anyway,  though   there 


33°        (Honour  Among  Thieves) 

was  a  moon  as  bright  as  day  that  night,  I  came 
to  try  and  find  you — and  give  you  the  wheeze. 
And  all  I  got  was  this, "  Jean  concluded,  raising  his 
hands  significantly  to  his  throat. 

But  if  Jean  expected  sympathy  or  regret  from 
his  leader,  he  was  vastly  mistaken.  At  the  name 
"Faver, "  Gaspard  started  and  uttered  a  smoth- 
ered oath;  now  he  was  striding  up  and  down 
the  room  with  a  face  as  black  as  a  thunder-cloud. 
He  had  received  yet  another  shock  to  his  self- 
confidence. 

Fool  that  he  had  been  to  dismiss  from  his  mind 
as  of  no  account  Trevor  Wyer's  anecdote  of  the 
somnolent  angler  upon  the  island — the  little  man 
who,  with  all  the  paraphernalia  of  the  fisherman 
about  him,  had  met  them  near  the  Janesford 
avenue  gates  and  wished  them  a  cheerful  good-, 
night. 

"Mr.  Faver"  was  his  name!  a  retired  linen- 
draper  !  on  a  holiday ! 

Pointer's  simulated  disinterest  had  long  given 
place  to  a  rigid  attention.  Though  he  had  not 
Gaspard's  knowledge  of  all  the  details,  he  under- 
stood enough  to  realise  the  possible  seriousness  of 
the  position. 

"Faver! — Faver!"     he    burst     out     suddenly. 
'Can  he  be  Faverol? — old  Lavigne's  rival — he's 


Honour  (Among  Thieves)        331 

a  small,  stoutish  man,  I  know.  Say,  Andy!  Is 
he  after  us,  or " 

"Silence!"  roared  Gaspard,  wheeling  round  on 
him.  .  .  .  "Yes,  give  him  some,  if  you've  got 
any" — for  Jean  had  also  interrupted  with  a  faint 
demand  for  food,  and  it  was  obvious  that  the  little 
man  was  on  the  verge  of  a  collapse. 

Polliter  produced  a  tin  of  biscuits  and  a  half- 
filled  bottle  of  sherry  from  the  sideboard  and 
placed  them  upon  the  table.  Without  a  word  of 
thanks,  Jean  pounced  upon  the  food,  almost  chok- 
ing himself  in  his  hunger.  It  occurred  to  Polliter, 
eyeing  his  comrade  with  open  disgust,  that  of  the 
two,  Courtois  and  Jean,  he  despised  and  detested 
Jean  the  more.  Courtois,  at  least  (Polliter  re- 
membered), had  possessed  the  semblance  and  the 
manners  of  something  like  a  gentleman. 

Meanwhile,  though  neither  he  himself  nor  his 
companions  were  aware  of  the  fact,  a  strange  thing 
had  happened  to  Gaspard.  It  had  occurred 
twice  or  thrice  before;  on  each  occasion,  while 
he  had  been  keeping  midnight  vigil  in  his  bed- 
chamber at  Janesford  Hall,  when  his  brain  had 
been  surcharged,  as  it  were,  with  thoughts  of  the 
past,  the  present,  and  the  future. 

For  several  moments  his  mind  became  an 
absolute  blank.     He  stood  quite  still,  with  head 


332         Honour  (Among  Thieves) 

erect  and  eyes  wide  open  as  if  in  thought ;  but,  for 
him,  there  was  a  lacuna — a  void — both  in  thought 
and  in  time ;  in  effect,  he  had  lost  all  consciousness. 

1 '  Guv'nor ! ' '  Jean  put  in  quietly.  The  wine  had 
revived  him,  and  there  was  just  a  trace  of  inso- 
lence in  the  question.     "Have  you  found  him?" 

Gaspard  took  no  notice. 

"Shut  up,  you  fool,"  Polliter  growled,  in  sneer- 
ing tones.  "D'you  think  Courtois  would  adver- 
tise where  he  lives  in  the  papers?" 

"He  found  '  the  little  Dutchman,'"  Jean  insisted 
doggedly.     "And  you  leave  me  alone!" 

Gaspard  seemed  to  wake  up. 

"Ah!  'the  little  Dutchman'— Van  Langenberg,  " 
he  murmured,  smiling  cynically.  "We,  the  'Invisi- 
bles,' started  him  upon  the  road  of  prosperity. 
Now  that  we  are  in  distress,  shall  he  not  come  to 
our  assistance?  Comrades!  we  will  demand  it. 
.  .  .  Attention!"  Face,  voice,  and  manner  had 
changed  with  almost  melodramatic  suddenness. 
The  old  Andre  Gaspard  was  himself  again,  issu- 
ing in  cold,  level  tones  his  rigid  instructions  for 
a  last  grand  coup. 

The  instructions  had  been  given,  repeated,  and 
understood.  Not  the  tiniest  detail  had  been  over- 
looked. Polliter  and  Jean  were  silent.  Had 
tions  been  allowed,  they   would  have  asked 


Honour  (Among  Thieves)        333 

none.  They  were  awed  afresh  by  their  leaders 
grim  personality — nay,  more:  both  had  suddenly 
found  active  terror  for  the  basilisk-like  face  which 
confronted  them. 

But  Polliter  and  Jean  regarded  the  plan  from 
different  standpoints:  Polliter — as  the  final  effort 
to  obtain  the  means  to  pass  the  remainder  of  his 
life  in  ease  and  obscurity ;  Jean — as  but  a  stop-gap 
on  the  fruits  of  which  he  could  renew  an  existence 
of  debauchery,  while  his  leader  ransacked  the 
world  for  Hippolyte  Courtois. 

Gaspard  put  on  his  overcoat.  "Jean  will  not 
leave  this  room  until  you  return,"  he  said  deci- 
sively to  Polliter,  as  he  picked  up  his  hat,  smoothed 
it  with  his  sleeve,  and  moved  towards  the  door. 

"But,  Andy!—"  Polliter  expostulated.  He 
thought,  naturally  enough,  that  the  instructions 
given  him  before  Jean's  arrival  would  now  have 
been  entirely  revoked. 

"I  see  no  reason  to  alter  anything,"  Gaspard 
retorted,  "except  that  when  we  have  interviewed 
Van  Langenberg,  I  promise  Jean  three  minutes 
with  Hippolyte  Courtois." 

Polliter  gasped — stared — swore  violently.  He 
was  completely  mystified  by  his  leader's  volte- 
face. 

"Guv'nor!"  screamed  Jean,   in  an  ecstasy  of 


334        Honour  (Among  Thieves) 

joy,  springing  to  his  feet  and  rushing  across  the 
room. 

But  Gaspard  had  shut  the  door  in  his  face ;  and, 
presently,  an  elderly  gentleman  emerged  upon 
the  street,  slowly  rounded  the  corner  past  the 
Plough  Tavern,  and  hailed  a  passing  hansom  cab. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WITH  BOTH  HANDS 

IT  has  never  been  claimed  for  the  Hon.  Trevor 
*  Wyer  that  he  possessed  anything  approaching 
keen  perceptions;  it  was  his  nature  to  accept 
effects  without  bothering  himself  to  hunt  for  the 
causes  which  produced  them.  This  characteristic, 
no  doubt,  while  enabling  him  to  step  out  blithely 
on  life's  journey,  yet  tended  to  send  him  along 
roads  which  a  more  subtle  man  would  have  seen  at 
once  were  but  side-tracks  and  not  the  broad  high- 
way. In  other  words  Wyer  was  a  normal,  some- 
what happy-go-lucky,  healthy  young  fellow,  not 
gifted  (or  should  it  be  cursed?)  with  an  excess  of 
brains. 

For  two  days  he  pondered  over  Heron's  parting 
words,  and  ruefully,  but  without  the  slightest 
venom,  "hanged"  his  recent  guest  for  not  being 
more  explicit.  He  could  not  understand  how 
Heron  could  possibly  be  "in  the  way"  at  Janes- 
ford;  though  there  could  be  no  mistaking  what 

335 


336  With  Both  Hands 

meaning  his  friend  had  intended  to  convey  Again, 
Heron's  pledge  to  remove  the  possible  objections 
of  a  refractory  parent  was  equally  vague. 

How  could  Heron  influence  Gautil,  to  whom  he 
was,  practically,  a  complete  stranger?  If  it  came 
to  that  why  should  Gautil  have  any  objections? 
In  spite  of  his  "democratic  notions"  Wyer  could 
not  help  being  conscious  of  a  pride  of  family ;  it  was 
born  in  him ;  and  it  was  entirely  without  snobbish- 
ness. And  he  was  a  man-of-the-world  enough 
to  know  that  as  the  future  Lord  Janesford  he  was 
not,  from  a  worldly  standpoint,  an  "ineligible" 
to  any  family. 

Besides,  Wyer  had  that  consciousness,  the  best 
and  the  least  conceited  of  all ;  the  consciousness  of 
a  clean  mind  in  a  wholesome  body,  which,  allied 
with  love,  is  the  finest  offer  man  can  make  to 
woman.     It  is  all  that  really  matters. 

Unfortunately  woman  herself  has  the  prerog- 
ative of  choice. 

"Seize  your  happiness  with  both  hands," 
Heron  had  said.  That  exhortation,  at  any  rate, 
was  easy  enough  to  understand;  but  there  are 
many  lovers,  bold  in  everything  else  under  the  sun, 
who  find  they  have  acquired  a  shy  timidity  on 
trying  to  put  such  praiseworthy  advice  into 
practice.     Love    is    blind — a    commonplace,    and 


With  Both  Hands  337 

one  which  is  considered  hardly  worth  saying;  and 
possibly  that  is  the  reason  why  the  truth  of  it 
is  so  constantly  forgotten. 

Wyer,  however,  was  not  altogether  blind.  He 
saw  but  too  plainly  that  Celeste's  manner  towards 
him  had  changed  adversely.  Before  that  con- 
founded burglary  affair  she  had  been  open  and, 
despite  occasional  wordy  warfare,  friendly — in 
fact,  all  that  he  could  reasonably  desire.  Then 
.she  had  appeared  to  be  little  removed  from  the 
"flapper"  stage;  and,  unconsciously  in  love  as 
Wyer  had  been,  he  had  been  content  to  wait.  Now 
she  seemed  to  have  become  a  woman,  had  become 
reserved,  and  evidently  disinclined  for  his  society. 

Keen-witted  in  this  much,  Wyer  instinctively 
recognised  a  subtle  antagonism  where  Mrs.  Gautil 
only  saw  a  maidenly  fortification  against  love's 
assault.  Had  it  not  been  so,  it  is  probable  that 
he  would  not  have  needed  Heron's  encourage- 
ment to  take  the  fort  by  storm. 

As  it  was,  he  foolishly  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
had  better  "chuck  it" — as  he  had  informed  Heron 
■ — and  clear  off  again  to  the  Colonies.  He  came 
to  this  definite  conclusion  while  eating  his  break- 
fast, though  truth  compels  the  admission  that  his 
breakfast  did  not  suffer  thereby. 

There  was  nothing  of  the  dyspeptic,  languishing 


338  With  Both  Hands 

lover  about  Lord  Janesford's  heir;  indeed,  he 
experienced  wholesome  thrills,  almost  a  kind  of 
nostalgia,  at  the  thought  of  living  once  again  the 
joyous,  untrammelled  life  "  under  a  boundless  sky, 
in  a  boundless  land."  But  under  it  all  was  the 
healthy  man,  awakened  to  his  manhood,  and  long- 
ing for  the  mate  of  his  choice  to  share  that  free 
life  with  him  and  redouble  the  sweetness  by  her 
presence. 

"Oh,  it's  the  deuce  and  all! "  Wyer  said  out  loud 
as  he  reached  for  his  old  briar  and  began  to  stuff  the 
tobacco  into  its  charred  bowl.  The  pipe  alight,  he 
glanced  at  his  watch. 

He  had  an  engagement  during  the  morning  to 
meet  Farmer  Pountney  and  one  of  the  Janesford 
tenants  at  Penny  Farm,  for  the  purpose  of  adjust- 
ing a  trivial  dispute  connected  with  the  repair  of 
a  boundary  wall. 

Everything  has  a  knack  of  going  wrong  at  the 
same  time.  On  entering  the  stable  courtyard  a 
little  later,  Wyer  found  fresh  cause  for  growling 
against  fate.  Tom,  the  stable-lad,  was  tussling 
with  Primrose,  who  was  objecting  most  forcibly 
to  being  harnessed  to  the  dog-cart.  The  lad  had 
never  been  able  to  manage  the  mare,  and  even  as 
Wyer  called  out  to  him  to  be  more  gentle  the  ani- 
mal kicked  out  against  the  shaft  and  lamed  herself. 


With  Both  Hands  339 

It  was  soon  evident  that  Primrose  was  in  no  fit 
condition  to  be  driven ;  and,  highly  incensed,  Wyer 
led  her  back  to  her  loose-box  and  rendered  her  first 
aid.  If  his  friend,  Heron,  was,  as  he  had  averred, 
"almost  a  doctor,"  Wyer  certainly  could  lay 
justifiable  claim  to  being  a  "vet." 

The  accident  was  most  annoying;  not  only  was 
Primrose  a  valuable  animal  and  the  apple  of  her 
owner's  eye,  but  he  realised  that  he  would  need  to 
hurry  if  he  were  to  keep  his  appointment  on  time. 
By  road  this  was  now  impossible,  and  Wyer  quickly 
determined  that  he  must  go  by  river. 

Little  more  than  half  an  hour  later,  after  a 
strenuous  pull  up-stream,  he  made  fast  his  boat 
under  the  dead  oak  tree  at  Folley  bend  and  set  off 
up  through  the  belt  of  woodland  to  Penny  Farm. 
Here,  yet  another  cause  for  complaint  awaited  him, 
and  only  his  respect  and  fondness  for  russet- 
cheeked  old  Mrs.  Pountney  prevented  a  very 
unusual  explosion  of  temper. 

Pountney,  it  appeared,  had  gone  an  hour  ago  to 
Beaudelay  market.  He  and  the  other  disputant 
over  the  wretched  boundary  wall  had  come  to 
terms,  and  Pountney  had  fully  expected  to  meet 
Wyer  on  the  road,  and  so  save  him,  at  any  rate, 
part  of  an  unnecessary  journey. 

Mollified  enough  to  accept  a  glass  of  cider,  Wyer 


34°  With  Both  Hands 

inquired  after  Mrs.  Aubertin,  and  learnt  that  she 
had  not  yet  come  downstairs,  having  breakfasted 
in  bed. 

The  farmer's  dame  became  voluble  over  her 
lodger's  poor  state  of  health  and  her  recent  break- 
down ;  and,  with  the  disconcerting  frankness  of  the 
countryside,  she  said  bluntly  what,  in  her  opinion, 
was  responsible  for  the  lady's  condition.  .  .  . 

"And  she  is  but  young  yet,  Master  Trevor," 
Mrs.  Pountney  added,  with  a  sigh  reminiscent  of 
a  night  which  had  taxed  her  powers  of  sympathy  to 
the  utmost.  "But  the  poor  soul's  had  a  mort  o' 
trouble,  I'm  afraid;  and,  p'raps,  it's  God  A'mighty's 
way  o'  doin'  His  very  best  for  her,  did  she  but 
know  it." 

At  that  moment,  hearing  the  sound  of  horses' 
hoofs,  Wyer  caught  sight  of  Hatt's  head  and 
shoulders  and  whip  over  a  hedge,  and  he  managed 
to  escape  further  gossip.  Hastening  along  the 
short  farm  road  to  the  highway,  he  found  Mrs. 
Gautil,  who  had  come  in  the  victoria  to  fetch  Mrs. 
Aubertin  for  a  drive. 

Something  in  Wyer's  face  aroused  Mrs.  Gau- 
til's  sympathy;  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  young 
man  had  expected,  or  rather  hoped,  that  she  would 
not  have  been  alone.  With  sympathy  came 
maternal  instincts  also,   and  a  sudden  determi- 


With  Both  Hands  341 

nation  to  go  her  own  way  for  once,  her  husband 
notwithstanding. 

"Celeste,"  she  remarked,  flushing  prettily, 
"detests  the  victoria;  so,  you  see,  if  it  wasn't  for 
Mrs.  Aubertin,  I  should  have  to  keep  myself  com- 
pany. I  believe,"  she  added  artlessly  (Oh!  Mrs. 
Gautil)  "Celeste  intended  to  go  out  in  her  boat. 
I  am  a  little  nervous  for  her  sometimes;  but  she 
does  so  love  the  river,  and  it  seems  a  pity  for  her 
not  to  take  full  advantage  of  it  while  she  can. " 

"Yes,"  Wyer  admitted  gravely,  "it  is  a  gor- 
geous day.  And  it  may  be  the  last  chance  she  will 
get  this  year." 

"I  did  not  mean  that,"  Mrs.  Gautil  replied, 
lowering  her  voice.  "I  think,"  she  went  on, 
lightly  touching  Wyer's  hand  resting  on  the  door  of 
the  carriage  near  her,  "I  think  my  husband  intends 
taking  us  all  abroad  very  soon. " 

Wyer  looked  puzzled;  then  suddenly  he  under- 
stood that  the  gentle  little  lady  was  being  very, 
very  kind  to  him. 

"Thank  you, "  he  said  simply ;  then — he  couldn't 
help  it:  "you  are  a  brick!"  he  murmured,  with 
boyish  fervour. 

Mrs.  Gautil  smiled,  but  she  pulled  down  her  veil 
to  conceal  the  mistiness  that  threatened  to  cloud 
her  eyes. 


342  With  Both  Hands 

"Will  you  go  and  tell  Mrs.  Aubertin  I  am  here?  " 
she  said  quickly.  "And  don't — don't  trouble  to 
come  back  with  her.     She  will  forgive  you. " 

Wyer  raised  his  hat,  and  departed  on  his  errand. 
As  he  turned,  his  glance  fell  upon  Hatt.  The 
man's  broad  back  was  rigid  as  a  statue,  but  his  head 
was  nodding  ever  so  slightly  and  the  ghost  of  a  grin 
played  about  his  wide  mouth.  It  seemed  that 
Hatt  approved  of  something ;  and  Wyer,  somehow, 
easily  forgave  him  for  momentarily  forgetting 
his  "place." 

It  often  occurs  that,  when  a  man  is  driven 
to  exasperation  by  the  contrariness  of  things  in 
general,  he  is  tempted  to  dare  Fate  to  do  its  worst. 
And  in  a  fatalistic  sort  of  way  he  risks  a  last  throw, 
where  in  more  normal  moments  he  would  have 
waited  until  his  luck  appeared  less  implacable. 

The  irritating  events  of  the  morning,  following 
his  resolution  to  throw  up  the  sponge  and  emigrate 
again  to  the  Colonies,  had  made  Trevor  Wyer  as 
unlike  his  jolly,  normal  self  as  he  could  possibly 
be.  Mrs.  Gautil's  obvious  hint — and,  strangely 
enough,  Hatt's  silent  approval  of  something  or 
other — had  come  at  the  psychological  moment. 

As  Mrs.  Pountney  with  slight  exaggeration  told 
her  husband  later,  "Master  Trevor  came  rushin' 
back,  and  called  to  me  to  tell  Mrs.  Aubertin  the 


With  Both  Hands  343 

kerridge  was  waitin'  for  her  in  the  road;  and  then 
went  off  in  a  tearin'  hurry  down  to  the  river.  Any 
other  man,  and  I'd  a'  said  he  was  drunk  on  the  one 
glass  o'  cider  I'd  given  him. " 

And  old  Farmer  Pountney,  being  just  a  little 
11  market  -peart "  himself,  and  fearing  his  spouse 
would  notice  it,  had  replied,  "Well,  I  never," 
slapped  his  thigh  and  demanded,  guilefully,  to  be 
told  it  all  over  again. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Wyer  had  forced  the  pace, 
and  he  had  been  somewhat  incoherent  in  deliver- 
ing instructions  to  Mrs.  Pountney.  Though  not 
from  the  effects  of  the  thin,  harsh  farm  cider,  his 
brain  certainly  was  not  in  its  ordinary  working 
condition.  What  he  thought  about  as  he  slogged 
up-stream  in  his  heavy  old  craft,  savagely  attacking 
each  ford  without  a  single  "breather, "  it  would  be 
hard  to  say.     He  never  remembered  afterwards. 

Knowing  that  if  Celeste  Gautil  had  come  down- 
stream, she  would  not  have  ventured  below  the 
famous  long  ford,  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  astern 
until  he  saw  the  tall  willows  on  the  tail  of  the 
island  well  abreast  of  the  boat.  Then  he  glanced 
eagerly  around.  A  brightly  varnished  dinghy, 
which  he  recognised  with  a  queer  thrill,  was 
beached  on  the  shingle  at  the  top  end  of  the  island. 

With  noiseless  strokes,  Wyer  pulled  on,  beached 


344  With  Both  Hands 

his  own  boat  alongside  its  dainty  comrade,  and 
sprang  out.  An  idea  occurred  to  him.  With  a 
grim  expression,  he  picked  up  the  sculls  from  both 
boats  and  hid  them  in  a  ditch  behind  some  bushes 
a  few  yards  away.  Then  he  climbed  up  the  narrow 
foot-track  to  the  little  tableland.  It  was  deserted. 
He  began  to  walk  round  the  edge,  searching  the 
nooks  between  the  willows. 

He  had  almost  made  a  complete  tour  round  the 
plateau  when  he  came  upon  her  lying  face  down- 
wards, her  head  pillowed  on  her  arms,  in  a  secluded 
hollow  concealed  by  a  hawthorn  thicket.  She 
was  wearing  the  brown  holland  dress  in  which  he 
had  first  seen  her;  the  familiar  pink  sunbonnet  lay 
at  her  side. 

The  soft,  spongy  moss-turf  had  muffled  his 
footsteps;  and,  for  a  moment,  Wyer  thought  she 
was  asleep.  Then,  suddenly,  his  understanding 
quickened;  he  knew  that  her  attitude  was  full  of 
the  abandon  of  unhappiness;  and,  almost  guiltily, 
he  retreated  silently  to  the  other  side  of  the  island. 

"Hulloa!"  he  shouted.  His  voice  sounded  un- 
natural, and  almost  broke.     He  called  out  again. 

Presently  he  saw  her  emerge  from  the  hollow. 
She  caught  sight  of  him  and  stood  still.  He  went 
quickly  towards  her. 

"Celeste,"    he    said,    and    stopped.     A    quick 


With  Both  Hands  345 

flash  of  welcome  had  come  into  her  brown  eyes,  to 
be  veiled  instantly  by  a  shy,  comprehending 
alarm  caused  by  his  use  of  her  name,  and  by  what 
she  could  not  help  seeing  in  his  face. 

"Celeste?"  he  repeated. 

Her  colour  came  and  went.  "Oh,  why  have 
you  come?"  she  asked,  in  a  low,  troubled  voice. 

"You  know,"  he  replied.  He  had  lost  all  his 
boyishness.  His  direct  gaze  was  kind,  yet,  in  a 
way,  implacable.  As  he  stood  firmly  before  her  he 
resembled  a  certain  Janesford  ancestor  who,  it  was 
said,  on  entering  the  boudoir  of  his  obstinate 
lady-love,  had  locked  the  door,  and  refused  to 
open  it  again,  until  he  had  received  the  answer  for 
which  he  craved. 

"Celeste!"  he  said  again.  "Now  that  I  have 
come,  will  you  send  me  away?" 

She  struggled  to  find  her  voice,  but  could  not. 

"Why  have  you  avoided  me  lately?"  he  de- 
manded.    "What  has  changed  you?" 

Still  she  remained  silent;  and  her  eyes,  filling 
with  tears,  fell. 

"You  little  goose!"  he  whispered  with  tender 
raillery.  "Look  up,  sweetheart!  Look  up,  and 
say  you  hate  me.     You  cannot. " 

With  a  swift  stride  forward  he  took  her  bodily 
into  his  arms.     For  a  brief  second  he  felt  her  yield ; 


346  With  Both  Hands 

his  hand  sought  her  hair,  and  with  gentle  pressure 
compelled  the  face  upwards.  Then  he  kissed  her 
upon  the  lips. 

She  broke  from  his  embrace  with  a  piteous  cry. 
"Oh!— don't— -I  cannot  bear  it!" 

"Cannot  bear  it?"  he  retorted  gaily;  "cannot 
bear  being  told  that  I  love  you?" 

"Oh!  don't  you  understand?"  She  sank  down 
upon  the  grass,  and  hid  her  face. 

Puzzled,  he  gazed  down  at  her.  "No,  I  don't,  " 
he  said  simply.  "All  that  I  understand  is  that  I 
love  you" — his  voice  shook  a  little  and  became 
very  gentle — "but  child,  if  I  am  causing  you  pain — 
if  you  cannot — oh!"  he  burst  out,  "put  me  out  of 
my  misery — and  send  me  away.  I  can  bear  it, 
but  it  will  be  torture  for  a  bit. " 

"I  am  ashamed,"  she  murmured.  With  an 
effort,  she  faced  him  bravely.  "Will  you  listen?" 
she  asked.  "I  must  tell  you.  Oh!  it  hurts;  but 
you  must  hear — then — if  I  am  wrong — if  you  de- 
spise me — you  can  go." 

"Nothing  can  make  me  despise  you, "  he  replied. 

It  was  a  pitiful  little  avowal.  Loyalty  to  a 
father,  and  a  rigid  code  of  right  and  wrong  warring 
against,  and  even  conquering,  a  better  instinct  of 
the  heart. 

When  the  girl  had  told  her  father  how  she  had 


With  Both  Hands  347 

found  Trevor  Wyer  in  Hatt's  room  at  midnight, 
Gautil  had  at  first  scoffed  at  the  idea  of  a  burglary. 
But  he  had  gone  on  to  make  other  remarks  which 
were  enigmatical.  His  words  were  not  a  direct 
accusation;  in  fact,  had  he  been  taxed  with  the 
question,  he  would  have  denied  any  such  intention ; 
and  the  words  themselves,  at  a  pinch,  would  have 
borne  him  out. 

Nevertheless,  fearing  the  prominence  into  which 
the  marriage  of  his  daughter  to  Lord  Janesford's 
son  would  bring  him,  and  seeing  in  the  burglary  a 
way  to  estrange  the  young  people,  Gautil  had, 
perforce  and  deliberately,  hinted  to  Celeste  that 
Trevor  Wyer  had  succumbed  to  a  sudden  temp- 
tation, and  had  been  caught  by  Hatt  in  the 
act. 

Hatt,  it  would  seem,  with  the  best  intentions 
and  because  of  a  liking  for  Wyer,  had  tried  to  cloak 
him,  with  his  master's  subsequent  approval.  But, 
of  course,  Celeste  was  led  to  understand  the  inti- 
macy which  had  grown  up  must  be  checked.  Also, 
her  father  had  made  her  see  plainly  that  she  must 
necessarily  keep  silence  on  the  matter. 

To  give  Gautil  his  due,  his  necessary  cruelty  to 
his  daughter  had  gone  against  the  grain;  but  he 
was  cornered;  and  a  choice  of  evils  seemed  to  be 
the  only  way  to  get  clear.     He  did  not  realise  the 


348  With  Both  Hands 

depth  of  Celeste's  feelings  towards  the  man  he 
maligned.  After  all,  he  thought,  she  was  but  a 
child,  and  would  soon  forget  him. 

This  morning,  just  as  Celeste  was  getting  ready 
to  go  down  to  the  river,  her  father  had  called  her 
into  his  study.  He  had  noticed  her  behaviour 
towards  Trevor  Wyer,  and  he  applauded  what  he 
called  her  good  sense.  He  did  not  refer  again  to 
his  veiled  objections  to  the  young  man ;  but  he  told 
her  that  he  had  definitely  arranged  to  leave  the 
neighbourhood  very  soon  and  go  abroad  with  his 
family. 

In  the  plan,  Celeste  had  divined  nothing  but 
kindness  towards  herself.  She  knew  it  was  the 
best  possible  thing  for  her — if  Wyer  were  guilty; 
but  at  the  thought  of  separation  from  him,  soon — 
and  for  ever — her  heart  rose  up  in  arms  and  re- 
belled. Guilty  or  not,  she  loved  him.  Could  she 
bear  to  leave  him? 

The  interview  with  her  father  at  an  end,  she 
had  gone  down  to  her  beloved  river,  hastened  to 
the  sland,  there  to  fling  herself  upon  the  grass 
and  fight  her  young  battle  in  solitude.  Oh  if  he 
would  but  come  to  her !  .  .  .  And  now  he  had  come 
— and  she  could  not  send  him  away  were  he  guilty 
a  thousand  times  over.  But  her  sturdy  young 
heart  had  told  her  that  she  must  be  the  accuser, 


With  Both  Hands  349 

even  though  he,  when  he  had  listened  to  her,  were 
to — ah!  dear  God!  what  would  he  do? 

The  halting  recital  came  to  an  end.  She  could 
not  look  at  him,  and  she  feared  because  of  his 
silence. 

Celeste  was  acutely  conscious  of  Trevor's  mo- 
tionless figure  standing  close  behind  her.  Then 
she  felt  a  hand  lightly  rest  upon  her  hair. 

"  Celeste, "  he  said  quietly,  "I  love  you.  Do 
you  love  me?     Answer,  child!" 

The  girl  hesitated  quivering.  "  Yes, "  she  whis- 
pered at  last — "I  love  you." 

"Nothing  else  matters?" 

"No." 

"Even  if  I  were  a  thief?" 

"Oh!  you  know  it.  Yes — yes — yes,"  she  cried 
piteously.  "Oh!  I  am  ashamed" — a  wild  flood 
of  tears  checked  her  utterance. 

Wyer  sat  down  beside  her  and  again  took  her 
into  his  arms.  This  time  she  lay  there  passive — 
broken.     He  caressed  her  hair  with  tender  fingers. 

"You  little  goose!"  he  chided  her,  while  happi- 
ness made  his  voice  ring.  "I  am  no  thief.  Look 
up !  Look  into  my  eyes  and  see.  You  poor  dar- 
ling kiddie !  What  a  rotten  shame !  What  a  rotten 
time  you  must  have  had!" 

No  bitter  scorn;  no  reproachful,   "How  could 


350  With  Both  Hands 

you  believe  it  of  me!"  He  could  think  only  of 
her;  self  was  forgotten.  Just  Trevor  Wyer  all 
over! 

But  there  was  no  need  for  the  girl  to  search  into 
his  eyes.  Her  own  heart  leaped  suddenly  in  the 
full  consciousness  of  the  truth.  With  gentle 
insistence  she  freed  herself  from  his  encircling  arms, 
and,  kneeling  before  him,  placed  her  two  hands 
upon  his  shoulders.  For  a  brief  second,  limpid, 
brown,  tearful  eyes  met  those  of  clear,  joyous  blue. 
A  hot  colour  suffused  the  dainty  sun-tan  of  her  face, 
and  spread  downwards  to  the  perfect  column  of  her 
bare  throat  and  neck. 

Then  she  bent  slowly  forward  and  kissed  him. 


CHAPTER  XV 


KIT  POLLITER  "  SELLS  A  PUP  "  TO  M.  FAVEROL 


11  A   GENTLEMAN  to  see  you,  sir,"  announced 

**  the  elderly,  unprepossessing  parlour- maid, 
appearing  at  the  door  of  her  master's  study  about 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

"Name?"  Gautil  demanded. 

"He  would  not  give  one,  sir;  but  he  said  that  his 
business  was  very  important." 

"H'm.     Show  him  in." 

Gautil  had  been  expecting  the  interruption.  A 
few  minutes  previously,  glancing  up  from  the 
antique  bureau  at  which  he  was  seated  writing 
a  letter  to  Lord  Janesford,  he  had  seen  a  tall  man  in 
a  long  drab  overcoat  and  a  Homburg  hat  approach 
the  house  and  pass  by  outside  the  window  towards 
the  front  door. 

Strange  visitors  at  Seckley  Cottage  were  a  rarity 
at  any  time ;  but  now  Gautil  had  additional  reasons 
for  being  upon  the  alert.  He  had  a  vague  feeling 
of  uneasiness,  amounting  almost  to  foreboding. 

35i 


352        Kit  Polliter  "Sells  a  Pup" 

Presently  the  maid  returned  and  ushered  in 
the  stranger,  who  waited  until  the  door  had  been 
closed  again;  then  he  advanced  to  the  middle  of 
the  room  with  an  ingratiating  "Good  morning, 
Mr.  Gautil,"  which  somewhat  seemed  at  variance 
with  his  general  outward  bearing  of  self-assurance. 

"Morning,"  Gautil  responded  curtly. 

The  stranger  gave  a  deprecatory  cough.  "  Er — 
can  I  speak  without  fear  of  being  overheard?"  he 
inquired  hesitatingly.  "It  is,  I  may  say,  a  some- 
what delicate  subject." 

Gautil  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  had  revised 
his  first  impression  that  this  was  a  police  officer, 
past  or  present.  Probably  the  fellow  was  merely 
a  professional  "cadger,"  a  commercial  tout;  it 
mattered  not  what.  Inwardly,  Gautil  was  much 
relieved ;  but  his  relief  only  served  to  make  him  the 
less  inclined  to  waste  courtesy. 

"So  far  as  I  am  concerned, "  he  said  roughly,  "I 
know  of  nothing  you  may  not  shout  out  on  the 
housetops.     I '  ve ' ' 

The  stranger  interrupted  him  quickly.  "My 
employer  would  not  like  that,"  he  observed 
gravely,  to  all  appearances  taking  Gau til's  words 
in  their  literal  meaning,  "and  before  I  proceed,  I 
must  ask  you  to  pledge  yourself  not  to  divulge — er 
— what  I  have  to  put  before  you.     I  come,  I  may 


Kit  Polliter  "Sells  a  Pup"        353 

say,  on  behalf  of  Lord  Janesford."  He  placed 
enough  emphasis  upon  the  name  to  show  that  he 
regarded  it  as  a  talisman,  and  felt  confident 
that  Gautil  would  do  likewise. 

Lord  Janesford's  name  had  its  effect.  Gautil's 
manner  changed  at  once.  "Lord  Janesford!" 
he  exclaimed,  in  genuine  surprise.  "Of  course, 
anything  you  may  say  on  behalf  of  his  lordship  I 
shall  regard  in  strict  confidence.  His  solicitor? 
But  sit  down — sit  down." 

"Not  his  usual  one — unfortunately  for  myself, " 
the  stranger  replied  with  a  bow.  He  moved  a  chair 
nearer  to  the  bureau,  and  seated  himself  in  a  pro- 
fessional attitude. 

"Some  time  ago,"  he  went  on,  "you  made  his 
lordship  an  offer  of  £3000  for  this — er — delightful 
property.  His  lordship,  at  the  time,  could  not — er 
— bring  himself  to  part  with  this  particular  portion 
of  the  Janesford  estate ;  and — er — he  realises — er — 
that,  perhaps,  he  expressed  his  disinclination  in 
somewhat  too — er — forcible  terms. 

"Lord  Janesford,  Mr.  Gautil,  suffers  from — er — 
gout.  An  affliction  most  trying  to  the  temper; 
and — er — I  feel  sure  that  you — er — bear  no  resent- 
ment. 

"Very  well,  then.  In  view  of  the  fact  that 
should — shall  we  say? — a  mutual  attraction  be- 


354        Kit  Polliter  " Sells  a  Pup" 

tween  two  young  people  be  allowed  to  take  its 
natural  course,  this  property  would  not — er — as 
it  were,  go  out  of  the  family — you  take  me? — 
his  lordship  is  inclined  to  withdraw  his  objections 
not  only  to  the  sale,  but  also  (er — forgive  me,  you 
will  understand  that  Lord  Janesford  had  other 
views  with  regard  to  his  son's  future),  but  also, 
then,  to  waive  any  objections  he  may  naturally 
entertain  towards  the  match  between  the  Honour- 
able Trevor  Wyer  and — er — Miss  Gautil. 

"Ahem!  I  may  say — er — between  ourselves, 
that  his  lordship  finds  himself  at  the  present  time 
exceedingly  embarrassed — er — on  the  score  of — er 
— (a  vulgar  word!)  cash.  That  is  to  say,  he  is  in 
immediate  need  of  the  sum  of  £5000.  That  being 
so,  he  has  instructed  me  to  state  that  he  is  pre- 
pared to  accept  £5000  for  this  property,  providing, 
Mr.  Gautil,  that  I  take — er — the  cheque  back  to 
him  direct  from  this  interview. 

"There  you  have  the  reason  for  and  the  object 
of  my  informal,  and — er — anonymous — shall  we 
say? — visit,  in  a  nutshell." 

The  stranger  flicked  a  speck  of  dust  from  his 
knees,  then,  with  finger-tips  joined,  he  leant  back 
in  his  chair,  as  if  willing  to  listen  to  objections,  but 
confident  in  his  ability  to  confute  them  with  sound 
argument. 


Kit  Polliter  " Sells  a  Pup"        355 

Throughout  the  recital  Gautil  remained  im- 
movable, scrutinising  his  visitor  through  half- 
closed  eyelids.  At  its  conclusion,  a  flicker  of 
cynical  amusement  came  into  his  face. 

"I  have  no  intention  of  purchasing  Lord  Janes- 
ford's  objections,"  he  remarked,  urbanely,  but 
dwelling  pointedly  upon  the  last  word.  "But, 
as  I  have  already  informed  him,  I  am  prepared  to 
forfeit  £500  if  he  will  release  me  from  my  obliga- 
tions with  regard  to  this  property. " 

Here  Gautil  told  a  deliberate  untruth.  Already 
he  had  begun  to  suspect  the  credentials  of  this  self- 
styled  emissary  of  Lord  Janesford,  and  had  deter- 
mined to  lay  a  trap  by  which  to  test  him. 

The  stranger  shook  his  head.  "In  the  circum- 
stances," he  observed  drily,  "his  lordship  would 
prefer  the  larger  sum." 

"No  doubt,  "  Gautil  retorted.  "By  the  way, " 
he  asked  carelessly,  "when  did  you  receive  your 
instructions  from  his  lordship?" 

"The  day  before  yesterday." 

"Personally?" 

"Certainly.  Lord  Janesford  went  most  fully 
into  the  case." 

"What  did  he  say  with  regard  to  my  letter  to 
him,  offering  to  forfeit  the  £500?" 

The  stranger  smiled.     "Er — his  lordship  is  at 


356        Kit  Pointer  "Sells  a  Pup" 

present  a  martyr  to  his  ailment, "  he  replied 
evasively.  "My  former  answer,  that  the  larger 
sum  would  be  preferred,  is,  perhaps,  a  little  more — 
er — amenable — than  the  actual  words  used  by  his 
lordship." 

Gautil  also  appeared  to  gather  some  amusement 
from  the  situation,  but  his  sense  of  humour  was 
sardonic.  He  could  have  informed  this  evident 
impostor  that  the  letter  to  Lord  Janesford  under 
discussion  still  reposed  in  the  top  drawer  of  the 
bureau,  as  yet  but  half -writ  ten. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  pleasantly  enough,  "we 
shall  do  no  good  by  prolonging  this  interview. 
And,"  he  added,  with  just  a  trace  of  acerbity, 
rising  and  going  towards  the  bell-rope  hanging 
by  the  fireplace,  "I  trust  you  will  not  object  to  my 
saying  that  in  future  I  prefer  to  treat  direct  with 
Lord  Janesford,  or  through  his  son,  Mr.  Trevor 
Wyer,  or  the  firm  of  solicitors  he  usually  employs. " 

Before  Gautil  could  reach  the  bell-rope,  his 
visitor  sprang  to  his  feet  and  intercepted  him. 

"Patience,  Mr.  Gautil!"  he  begged.  "If  you 
will  permit  me,  I  can  prove  to  you  that  Lord  Janes- 
ford is  acting  most  wisely — and  with  very  great 
consideration  for  yourself — in  employing  myself, 
an  outsider,  as  it  were,  to  act  in  this  matter." 
The  words  were  meticulously  polite,  but  there  was 


Kit  Polliter  " Sells  a  Pup"        357 

something  sinister,  not  to  say  threatening,  in  the 
stranger's  manner. 

"I  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  listen, " 
Gautil  said  coldly.  "Kindly  stand  aside  from 
the  bell." 

The  stranger  stood  his  ground  firmly.  "I 
hoped,"  he  remarked,  with  every  appearance  of 
regret,  "any  unpleasantness  might  have  been 
avoided;  but  I  am  pledged  to  follow  out  my 
instructions."  Then  his  voice  changed,  and 
became  curt  and  insistent.  "What  about  the 
loss  you  suffered  from  this  house  recently?"  he 
demanded. 

In  a  flash  all  his  former  uneasiness  returned  to 
Gautil,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  he  was  at  a  loss 
how  to  counter  what  was  obviously  intended  for 
an  attack.  How  did  the  stranger  know  of  the 
recent  burglary? 

No  mean  judge  of  men  (as,  indeed,  he  had  to 
be  of  necessity),  Gautil  was  positive  that  Trevor 
Wyer  had  told  no  one  of  the  affair  but  Heron. 
Hatt,  too,  was  to  be  trusted  implicitly.  Therefore, 
either  Heron  had  informed  Lord  Janesford,  who 
had  sent  this  man  to  blackmail  him,  or  the  fellow 
had  come  on  his  own  account,  in  which  case  he 
must  in  some  way  be  connected  with  the  thieves 
themselves ! 


358        Kit  Polliter  " Sells  a  Pup" 

If  the  latter  solution  were  correct,  how  came  he 
to  know  so  much  of  Gautil's  private  connection 
with  Lord  Janesford?  Possibly,  nay,  probably, 
Wyer  had  told  Heron,  who —  Ah!  Who  was 
this  Heron?  Nothing  was  known  of  him,  save 
that  he  was  a  chance  friend  of  the  Hon.  Trevor 
Wyer,   picked  up  on  a  voyage  from  Australia. 

Fired  with  alarming  suspicions  by  Heron's  own 
admissions,  and  still  further  by  Wyer's  narrative 
concerning  the  death  of  a  certain  South  Sea 
skipper,  Gautil  had  sought,  and  sought  in  vain, 
to  trace  in  Heron  a  likeness  to  Andre  Gaspard,  the 
one  man  in  the  world  who  could  inspire  him  with 
fear.  Because  of  that  fear  he  had  doggedly 
reassured  himself. 

But,  now,  suddenly  Gautil  realised  his  crass 
folly.  With  singular  obtuseness  he  had  not  for 
one  instant  put  it  to  himself  that  his  visitor  this 
morning  might  be  connected  with  his  suspicions  of 
George  Heron — that  Andre  Gaspard  and  his  gang 
were  once  more  at  large. 

In  the  first  place,  jumping  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  stranger  was  some  sort  of  police  official, 
Gautil's  forebodings  were  concerned  for  his  "col- 
lection"; and  especially  for  the  three  Louvre 
paintings  which  had,  indeed,  received  unlawful 
harbourage  within  the  "museum." 


Kit  Polliter  " Sells  a  Pup"        359 

Then,  in  his  relief  caused  by  the  mention  of 
Lord  Janesford,  Gautil  had  become  almost  care- 
less and,  certainly,  blind  to  possible  and  more  seri- 
ous issues.  Now,  renewed  fear  because  of  one 
man  lent  him  clear-sightedness  with  regard  to 
another.  He  sought  for  a  certain  other  likeness 
in  his  visitor — and  he  thought  he  found  it. 

Curses  on  it!  What  a  fool  he  had  been!  But 
at  any  rate  he  had  never  feared  Kit  Polliter;  and 
there  was  always  the  chance  that  he,  Gautil,  had 
not  been  recognised,  or — his  instincts  told  him — 
he  would  not  now  be  alive! 

The  consoling  thought  put  Gautil  on  his 
mettle. 

"  I  fail  to  understand  you, "  he  said  in  colourless 
tones. 

"Let  me  explain, "  his  visitor  replied  affably. 
As  if  conscious  that  Gautil  would  listen,  he  re- 
turned to  his  chair;  and  Gautil,  after  hesitating 
slightly,  followed  his  example,  inwardly  highly 
pleased  to  be  again  within  quick  reach  of  the  re- 
volver which  he  kept  ready  for  emergencies  within 
the  top  drawer  of  the  bureau. 

"It  has  come  to  Lord  Janesford's  knowledge/' 
the  stranger  continued,  after  a  pause,  "that 
three  valuable  paintings — er — masterpieces — were 
• — stolen    from    this    house    recently.     That, 


360        Kit  Polliter  "Sells  a  Pup" 

in  itself,  of  course,  is  of  no  consequence  to  Lord 
Janesford.  Pray  do  not  interrupt  me, "  for  Gautil 
had  attempted  to  speak. 

"Unfortunately,"  he  went  on,  "his  lordship  has 
learnt — er — with  regret,  that  these  paintings  were, 
in  fact — er — none  other  than  the  three  notorious 
masterpieces — er — missing  from  the  Louvre  in 
Paris — er — for  which  the — er — police  have  been 
vainly  searching,  and — er — for  which  a  reward  of, 
roughly,  £1000  has  been  offered. 

"Lord  Janesford — er — has  very  natural  reluc- 
tance to — er — undergo  the  publicity  of — er — claim- 
ing this  reward,  especially  having  in  consideration 
the — er — possible — shall  we  say? — fusion  of  the 
two  families,  yours  and  his  own.  Therefore,  Mr. 
Gautil,  I  put  it  to  you  as  a  sensible  man,  will  you 
not  reconsider  your  refusal  to  purchase — er — this 
property?" 

"And  Lord  Janesford's  silence?"  sneered  Gautil. 
He  could  "act"  when  necessary.  He  was  quite 
positive,  now,  that  this  was  Kit  Polliter.  Van 
Langenberg  had  been  right.  The  burglary  was  the 
work  of  Andre  Gaspard  and  his  gang.  Polliter, 
Gautil  recollected,  had  been  remarkable  for 
his  knowledge  as  a  connoisseur;  without  doubt 
he  had  recognised  the  paintings.  And  realising 
the  significance  of  Gautil's  possession  of  them, 


Kit  Polliter  " Sells  a  Pup"        361 

Gaspard  had  despatched  Polliter  to  work  the 
double  coup. 

Pointer's  acquaintance  with  Gautil's  domestic 
affairs  was  easily  explained:  Heron  had  " drilled'' 
him.  Little  doubt,  now,  that  Heron  was  Andre 
Gaspard.  A  grim  situation;  but  Gautil  found  a 
grain  of  comfort.  At  any  rate,  on  the  score  of 
the  pictures,  he  and  Van  Langenberg  need  have 
no  fear  of  the  police. 

Somehow  the  thought  brought  a  little  extra 
courage.  If  only  he,  himself,  had  escaped  recogni- 
tion, he  would  win  yet.  His  quick  wits  already 
had  seized  upon  a  plan  for  turning  the  tables  upon 
his  old  enemies. 

After  taking  time  for  reflection,  the  stranger 
replied  indifferently,  ''Precisely;  you  spare  me  the 
— er — necessity  of — er — words." 

For  a  few  moments  Gautil  simulated  a  troubled 
hesitation;  then,  with  great,  apparent  reluctance, 
he  opened  the  top  drawer  and  inserted  his  hand. 

''How  shall  I  make  the  cheque  out?"  he  in- 
quired sulkily. 

"To  'bearer' — unless  by  chance  you  have  the 
purchase  money  in — er — notes." 

"Well,  I  haven't,"  Gautil  retorted  savagely. 
Then,  as  if  a  thought  had  struck  him:  "But 
what    proof    have    I    that    you    are  authorised 


362        Kit  Polliter  " Sells  a  Pup" 

to  receive  the  money  on  Lord  Janesford's 
behalf?" 

The  stranger  shrugged  his  shoulders  ' '  My  dear 
sir,  you  must  see  that  'proof  in  this  case,  and 
in  the — er — somewhat  peculiar  circumstances, 
would  be  very  unwise.  His  lordship's  name  must 
be  kept  out  of  this  matter  altogether.  " 

Gautil's  face  set  hard.  "Go  back  to  Lord  Janes- 
ford, "  he  said  quietly,  gripping  the  revolver  and 
prepared  to  make  instant  use  of  it,  "and  tell  him 
from  me — to  be  hanged!  I  have  the  honour  to 
wish  you  '  Good  morning. ' " 

Immediately  the  stranger  discarded  further 
pretence.  "See  here,  old  sport,"  he  suggested, 
with  insolent  familiarity,  "suppose  we  do  keep 
his  blooming  lordship's  name  out  of  this?" 

Gautil  pointed  significantly  to  the  door. 

"Suppose  you  and  I  do  a  deal,"  persisted  the 
stranger. 

"If  you're  not  gone  in  one  minute,"  Gautil 
replied,  "I  shall  send  for  the  police. " 

"Police!"  jeered  the  other.  "Not  you!  Not 
when  I  tell  you  I'm  an  ex-Scotland  Yard  man 
myself,  eh?  Have  some  sense.  I've  traced  those 
pictures  here.  It  means  £1000  for  me  whenever 
I  like  to  ask  for  it.  Skittles!  I'm  out  for  l brass.' 
Now,    £5000    down,    and    I    know     nothing — 


Kit  Polliter  " Sells  a  Pup"        363 

harmless  as  a  kitten.  Come!  Call  it  a  square 
deal." 

Under  cover  of  the  bureau-top,  Gautil  withdrew 
his  hand  and  slipped  it  behind  his  back ;  then,  keep- 
ing his  eye  warily  upon  his  visitor,  he  edged 
quickly  to  the  bell-rope,  and  gave  it  a  violent  jerk. 

To  his  surprise  the  stranger  received  the  unex- 
pected rebuff  with  composure.  "Oh,  well!"  he 
remarked  coolly,  picking  up  his  hat  and  rising  to 
his  feet,  "if  you  will  be  a  'sawny,'  it's  your  own 
lookout. "  Then,  the  maid  appearing  at  the  door, 
he  resumed  his  professional  manner,  uttered  a 
polite  "Good  morning, "  and  briskly  left  the  room. 

Through  the  window  Gautil  watched  his  visitor 
stroll  away  out  of  sight.  Suddenly  he  shook  his 
fist.  "Curse  you!"  he  muttered,  his  sombre 
eyes  blazing  with  fury  and  hate.  "And  you" — a 
momentary  hesitation — "George  Heron!  Play- 
acting fools!  You'd  bleed  me,  would  you?  Bah! 
I'll  send  you  and  that  other  wizened  little  mummy 
back  to  your  nickel  mines!" 

It  would  be  easy.  What  if  they  had  recognised 
him !  He,  at  all  events,  had  no  fear  of  the  police. 
Police!  Bah!  the  fools!  He  would  write  at  once 
a  letter  stating  the  facts  fully  to  the  police  in  Paris. 
He  would  avow  openly  that  he  was  Hippolyte 
Courtois — was  Arthur  Allerton,  the  money-lender. 


364        Kit  Polliter  "Sells  a  Pup" 

No  harm  could  come  of  the  admission.  Then  he 
would  hurry  to  London,  put  the  matter  for  the 
meantime  in  the  hands  of  Scotland  Yard,  cable  a 
warning  to  Van  Langenberg,  and  slip  away  to 
Rotterdam  and  safety. 

The  police  would  understand  his  reasons  for 
disappearing.  He  would  emphasise  the  fact  that 
he  went  in  bodily  fear  of  his  life. 

It  seemed  so  simple  that  Gautil  almost  laughed. 
But,  on  attempting  to  put  pen  to  paper,  his  shak- 
ing hand  spoke  eloquently  of  the  shock  he  had 
sustained.     He  rang  the  bell  again  for  the  maid. 

"Has  your  mistress  come  in  yet?"  he  inquired. 

"No,  sir." 

Gautil  made  an  impatient  exclamation.  "  What 
carriage  did  she  take?" 

"The  victoria,  sir.  The  mistress  intended  call- 
ing at  the  farm  for  Mrs.  Aubertin. " 

"Send  Miss  Celeste  to  me." 

"Miss  Celeste  went  down  towards  the  river  an 
hour  ago,  sir." 

"H'm.  When  Hatt  comes  in,  tell  him  to  put 
the  horse  in  the  brougham — at  once;  you  under- 
stand?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Very  well.  Bring  a  brandy  and  soda — and  a 
biscuit." 


Kit  Polliter  "Sells  a  Pup"        365 

Once  more  Gautil  settled  down  to  compose  his 
letter.  The  brandy  notwithstanding,  his  hand- 
writing was  still  decidedly  shaky. 

Meanwhile,  Polliter  proceeded  leisurely  away 
from  the  house.  He  attached  no  importance  to 
Gautil's  threat  of  "police."  The  affair,  he  knew, 
was,  as  it  were,  "in  the  family."  He  had  recog- 
nised Hippolyte  Courtois  almost  at  the  beginning 
of  the  interview;  but,  deceived  by  Gautil's  behav- 
iour, he  did  not  think  that  his  own  identity  had 
been  discovered. 

Like  his  leader,  Polliter  had  been  curiously 
unaffected  by  the  sight  of  the  man  whose  treachery 
had  thrust  him  nto  unspeakable  misery  for  nearly 
twenty  ghastly  years.  Now  that  the  interview 
was,  as  he  put  it,  a  back  number,  his  chief  feeling 
was  relief;  for  he  considered  that  the  attempt  at 
blackmail  had  been  a  tactical  blunder  on  Gaspard's 
part,  and  risky  to  the  point  of  foolhardiness. 

Polliter  appreciated  more  than  ever  the  inesti- 
mable value  of  his  dearly  regained  liberty,  and  he 
pondered  over  Gaspard's  strange  see-sawing  and 
his  renewed  intention  of  taking  revenge  upon 
Courtois  with  grave  misgivings.  In  some  way  or 
another  revenge  was  sure  to  react  upon  Gaspard, 
himself,  and  Jean.  Moreover,  to  his  own  dis- 
may,   Polliter    had    begun    to    doubt    Gaspard's 


J 


66        Kit  Polliter  "  Sells  a  Pup 


infallibility.  His  leader  was  altered.  He  no 
longer  inspired  implicit  confidence. 

It  occurred  to  Polliter  that  it  would  be  a  plan 
worth  accomplishing  if  he  could  get  Gautil  put 
away — beyond  the  reach  of  Gaspard;  and,  seeing 
that  Gautil  was  undoubtedly  " wanted,' '  though 
unsuspected,  by  the  police,  it  did  not  seem  alto- 
gether impossible  that  he  could  be  landed  safely 
in  gaol.  The  question  was,  how  to  bring  about 
this  desirable  state  of  affairs!  An  anonymous 
hint  to  the  police  might  have  some  effect. 

It  so  happened  that,  while  in  this  mood,  on 
turning  a  corner,  Polliter  met  a  rotund,  rosy- 
cheeked,  chirpy  little  man  who  was  proceeding  in 
the  opposite  direction,  and  apparently  finding 
a  childlike  pleasure  in  swishing  his  feet  among  the 
dead  leaves  lying  in  drifts  at  one  side  of  the 
drive. 

Primed  by  Jean's  narrative,  Polliter  had  been 
warily  expectant  of  meeting  just  such  a  little 
fellow  as  this  man  appeared  to  be.  If  he  were, 
indeed,  the  redoubtable  Faverol,  the  encounter 
might  be  turned  to  account.  There  was  a  risk,  of 
course;  but  for  once  Pointer's  characteristic 
cautiousness  was  swamped  by  the  project  that 
had  been  simmering  in  his  brain.  At  any  rate,  he 
would  try  to  put  a  spoke  in  the  wheel  of  Chance. 


Kit  Polliter  " Sells  a  Pup"        367 

"Mr.  Fayer?"  he  inquired,  halting  abruptly. 

The  newcomer  drew  up  with  an  affable  smile. 
"That  is  my  name, "  he  admitted. 

"Ah!"  Polliter  grumbled,  lowering  his  voice 
and  assuming  a  resentful,  sulky  expression.  "I 
wasn't  quite  sure,  but  I  guessed  it  was  you.  I 
heard  in  the  village  that  was  the  name  you  went  by, 
down  here.  But  it's  Monseer  Faverol,  ain't  it?" 
This  was  a  shot;  and  though  it  found  the  mark, 
Faverol  withstood  it  well. 

"You  have  the  advantage  of  me,"  he  replied  a 
trifle  stiffly. 

Polliter  swore.  "Think  so?"  he  retorted.  "I 
reckon  it's  the  other  way  round.  Anyway,  I 
wouldn't  mind  having  your  reputation.  I'll  lay  a 
1  fiver '  we're  on  the  same  '  lay  ' — worse  luck !  Pri- 
vate inquiry  agent, "  he  explained,  tapping  himself 
on  the  breast.  "And  I  know  your  noble  features 
well  enough — seen  you  in  gay  '  Paree.'  Going 
down  below,  aren't  you?"  he  added,  jerking  his 
head  towards  the  hidden  Dower  House. 

With  the  disquieting  thought  that  he  had  been 
forestalled,  Faverol  yet  managed  to  smile  pleas- 
antly. "  I  was  intending  to  pay  a  call,  certainly, " 
he  said,  "but " 

"  But  now  I've  gone  and  queered  the  pitch,  eh? " 
Polliter  interrupted;  then  significantly:  "Here!     I 


368        Kit  Polliter  "Sells  a  Pup" 

know  'some,*  but  it  ain't  enough.  You  may  be 
in  the  same  box.     What's  a  share  worth?  " 

Faverol  did  happen  to  be  "in  the  same  box," 
but  he  saw  no  reason  as  yet  to  admit  the  fact ;  so  he 
raised  his  eyebrows  and  stared  blankly. 

"Oh,  cheese  it!"  Polliter  went  on  vulgarly. 
"You're  not  here  for  fun — or  fishing.  Come 
on,  now;  I'll  give  you  a  pointer.  In  this  blooming 
competition  the  missing  word  is  'Pictures.'  .  .  . 
Half  share  worth  £500 — eh?" 

Faverol  blew  out  his  cheeks.  "Phoo!  Pic- 
tures!" he  exclaimed.  "Be  more  explicit,  my 
candid  friend.  What  makes  you  so  eager  to 
share  £1000  with  me?" 

"Because  I've  hashed  things,  and  half  a  loaf's 
better  than  no  bread,"  Polliter  rejoined  disgust- 
edly. "  I  suppose,  as  usual,  Monseer  Faverol's  got 
the  whole  blessed  baker's  cartload."  He  walked 
away  in  a  huff. 

Faverol  called  him  back.  "There  is  no  need 
to  get  angry,"  he  remarked.  "Come,  tell  me, 
Mister " 

"Jacobs,"  sulkily. 

"  Mr.  Jacobs:  these  pictures — they  are  famous? " 

"Monseer  Faverol  wouldn't  be  here  after  tinted 
tuppeny  post-cards. " 

Faverol  acknowledged  the  implied  compliment 


Kit  Polliter  "Sells  a  Pup"        369 

with  a  charming  bow.  "Just  so,"  he  admitted. 
"And  did  these  pictures  at  one  time  adorn  the — 
the " 

"Oh,  spit  it  out!"  Polliter  snapped  irritably. 
"I  see  youVe  'tumbled,'  right  enough.  We're  on 
the  same  lay,  you  and  I.  Oh,  well,  if  you  won't, 
I  will.  The  Louvre — they  were  stolen  from  the 
Louvre  in  Paris;  and  I've  traced  'em  here;  this 
Gautilhad  'em " 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"Because  I've — I  know  some  one  who's  seen 
'em  hanging  bold  as  brass  in  a  room  down  yonder. " 

"Then  why  did  you  not  lay  an  information  and 
get  a  search  warrant?" 

"Didn't  I  say  that  I'd  hashed  things?  Think 
I'd  want  to  share  a  '  snip'  with  any  one  if  I  hadn't? 
Here,  if  you  won't  make  a  bargain,  I'm  going 
straight  off  to  lay  an  information  now. " 

"I  have  not  refused,  my  friend,"  Faverol 
observed  in  conciliatory  tones.  "All  I  wanted  to 
point  out  was  that  it  seemed  a  little  premature  to 
pay  Mr.  Gautil  a  visit,  until  you  were  quite  cer- 
tain what  you  were  going  for." 

"You're  going  yourself,  anyway." 

"Ah!  but  then  I,  perhaps,  may  not  make  a  hash 
of  things.  But  wait" — Faverol  assumed  a  fine  air 
of  candour — "  I  admit  I,  too,  know  '  some,'  but  not 
24 


370        Kit  Polliter  "  Sells  a  PupM 

enough.  Answer  me  one  question,  and  I  may 
agree  to  share  with  you.     What  is  this  Gautil?" 

"Ask  me  another,"  Polliter  replied.  "But  I'll 
tell  you  this  much.  I  marked  him  for  an  old  '  lag' 
some  time  back,  and  that's  what  put  me  on  his 
track.  The  pictures  aren't  all,  either" — Polliter 
checked  himself,  as  though  he  had  realised  he  had 
been  on  the  point  of  exceeding  his  share  of  the 
bargain,  and  added  lamely — "anyway,  he's  an 
old  'lag.'     You  can  sew  your  buttons  on  that." 

The  colloquy  now  seemed  to  hang  fire ;  both  men 
secretly  wished  to  cut  short  the  discussion;  but 
both  were  compelled,  for  form's  sake,  to  haggle  a 
little.  Finally,  outwardly  with  no  good  grace, 
Faverol  wrote  on  the  back  of  an  envelope  an 
acknowledgment  that:  "In  the  event,  etc.  .  .  . 
and  on  condition  that  Mr.  Jacobs  did  nothing  fur- 
ther in  the  matter,  etc.  ...  he,  Mr.  Jacobs,  was 
entitled  to  a  half  share  of  the  20,000  francs  offered 
as  a  reward,  etc.  ..." 

Having  pocketed  this  document  and  thrust  upon 
Faverol  in  return  a  fictitious  address  in  Camber- 
well,  with  the  evident  intention  of  appearing  a  wag, 
the  sham  inquiry  agent  wished  the  Frenchman 
"Olive-oil"  and  strolled  away  up  the  drive. 

To  all  appearance  Faverol 's  whole  attention  was 
centred  upon  Gautil,  i.e.,  Courtois;  and  if  only 


Kit  Polliter  " Sells  a  Pup"        371 

Faverol  had  something  definite  on  which  to  bring  a 
charge,  the  odds  seemed  to  be  in  favour  of  Gautil's 
being  speedily  clapped  into  gaol,  a  consummation 
Polliter,  whichever  way  he  looked  at  it,  devoutly 
desired.  But  nevertheless,  once  out  of  the  drive 
gates,  Polliter  put  his  best  foot  foremost;  prox- 
imity with  a  man  of  Faverol's  parts  was  not  to  be 
unduly  prolonged. 

Somewhat  elated  now  that  his  inspiration  had 
been  confirmed,  Faverol  continued  on  his  way 
down  towards  Seckley  Cottage. 

It  may  be  stated  at  once  that  he  had  not  for  a 
moment  doubted  Pointer's  veracity.  For  this 
slackening  of  his  usual  alertness  the  little  police 
agent's  own  vanity  was  largely  responsible.  It 
had  been  tickled  by  this  vulgar,  blundering 
"inquiry  agent's"  recognition  of  himself,  and  the 
fellow's  obvious  chagrin  on  discovering  that  he 
had  the  renowned  Faverol  for  a  rival. 

"Naturally,"  Faverol  preened  himself,  "dis- 
covering my  presence  in  the  neighbourhood, 
the  fool  lost  his  wits  and  took  precipitate 
action." 

On  learning  that  he  had  been  forestalled,  a 
lesser  man,  probably,  would  have  renounced  his 
intended  call  upon  Gautil;  but  Faverol,  on  the 
contrary,  was  more  determined  than  ever  to  fix 


372        Kit  Polliter  " Sells  a  Pup" 

his  inquisitive  eyes  upon  this  old  "lag. "  There 
were  few  old  lags  he  would  not  recognise. 

Gautil — to  give  a  rogue  his  due — was  no  weak- 
ling. Seeing  a  second  stranger,  a  small  man,  pass 
his  window,  his  thoughts  flew  to  Jean,  "the  Rat. " 

In  the  first  few  moments  of  the  succeeding 
interview  Faverol  never  guessed  how  near  he  came 
to  sudden  extinction.  Only  that  his  plump,  rosy 
features  could  not — from  the  very  first  glance — 
by  the  longest  stretch  of  imagination — be  likened 
to  a  member  of  the  rodent  family,  saved  him 
from  sharing  the  fate  of  his  dead  colleague,  Man- 
ton;  for  Gautil  had  by  no  means  forgotten  Jean's 
predilection  for  violence,  and,  with  a  fatalistic 
conviction  that  he  was  cornered,  he  intended  to 
shoot  "on  sight." 

Gautil,  therefore,  experienced  a  surge  of  relief 
when  Faverol  introduced  himself  under  his  true 
colours.  As  it  has  been  frequently  stated,  Gautil 
had  scanty  fears  of  the  police  on  his  own  account, 
and  he  quickly  came  to  the  very  natural  conclusion 
that  Faverol's  visit  need  cause  him  little  apprehen- 
sion; on  the  contrary,  it  seemed  highly  probable 
that  the  little  police  agent  was  hard  on  the  track 
of  the  "Invisibles." 

It  is  easy  to  understand  that  this  conclusion 
made  Gautil  the  more  positive  that  his  first  visitor 


Kit  Polliter  " Sells  a  Pup"        373 

was  Kit  Polliter,  and  made  him,  figuratively  speak- 
ing, welcome  the  French  detective  with  open  arms. 

Faverol's  next  communication  settled  the  mat- 
ter beyond  doubt.  With  many  apologies  for  the 
alarm  he  might  cause,  he  stated  that  he  had 
traced  a  notorious  gang  of  thieves  to  this  neigh- 
bourhood, and  hearing  that  Mr.  Gautil  possessed  a 
"collection"  of  objects  of  vertu  and  value,  he  had 
hastened  to  bring  a  timely  warning. 

Gautil  thanked  him,  and  without  waste  of  time 
proceeded  to  shed  new  light  on  the  subject.  His 
"collection,"  he  said  (in  itself  of  little  intrinsic 
value),  need  not  be  considered.  It  had  been  dis- 
posed of.  But  it  was  not  his  "collection,"  he 
feared,  which  had  attracted  the  gang  of  thieves 
mentioned  by  Faverol.  Their  object  was  revenge 
preceded  by  extortion,  and  this  letter  (which  he 
handed  to  Faverol  for  perusal)  would  give  the 
facts  of  the  case  in  extenso. 

As  he  read  the  letter  originally  intended  for 
his  chief  in  Paris,  Faverol's  eyes  and  mouth — 
his  whole  face — became  a  round  O  of  blank  aston- 
ishment and  consternation. 

"  Phoo ! "  he  breathed  out  at  last.  "  So  you  are 
Hippolyte  Courtois?     Phoo!" 

Gautil  nodded,  though  Faverol's  remark  had 
hardly  been  a  question. 


374        Kit  Polliter  "Sells  a  Pup" 

"And  you  say  this  George  Heron  staying  at — at 
— let  me  see — Janesford  Hall"  (it  will  be  seen  that 
Faverol  was  recovering  his  wits,  and,with  them,  his 
characteristic  disinclination  to  admit  knowledge) 
"is  Andre  Gaspard,  the  leader  of  three  forcats 
recently  escaped  from  New  Caledonia.  And  that 
— er — Kit  Polliter,  another  member  of  the  gang, 
has  been  here  this  very  morning — not  half  an  hour 
ago — attempting  to — Phoo !     Incredible ! ' ' 

Gautil  produced  a  cutting  from  a  Sydney  news- 
paper which  he  had  lost  no  time  in  obtaining  in 
order  to  corroborate  Trevor  Wyer's  narrative. 

"Read  that,"  Gautil  said  grimly.  "But  I 
should  have  thought  that  my  recognition  of  two  of 
them  would  have  been  enough  for  you.  It  is 
enough  for  me." 

It  was  more  than  enough  for  Faverol.  Inwardly, 
he  was  being  consumed  by  the  malignant  little 
devils  of  rage  and  humiliation.  He  had  been 
"gulled"  by  one  of  the  very  rascals  by  whose 
recapture  he  had  hoped  to  raise  himself  to  a  pin- 
nacle of  professional  fame.  He  had  been  recognised 
— his  quarry  alarmed — they  would  vanish — poof! 
into  thin  air — become  the  "Invisibles"  in  very 
truth.  Heron  return  to  Janesford!  Pah!  He 
was  in  London — in  Paris — in  Timbuctoo — laugh- 
ing, no  doubt,  at  him,  Faverol. 


Kit  Polliter  " Sells  a  Pup"        375 

And  what  was  left?  This  Gautil — this  Arthur 
Allerton — this  Hippolyte  Courtois — who  obviously 
had  told  the  truth. 

But  stay!  Had  he  told  all  the  truth?  The 
burglary  here :  was  it  a  myth?  Polliter  knew  of  it. 
Yes,  but  Wyer  had  told  Heron;  and  Heron,  being 
Andre  Gaspard,  had  probably  told  his  confederate, 
Polliter. 

Yes;  but  was  it  the  work  of  the  " Invisibles' ' 
themselves?  Such  expert  thieves  would  recognise 
the  three  pictures  without  doubt.  And  if  the  three 
pictures  were  not  the  famous  missing  masterpieces, 
it  would,  indeed,  be  extraordinary  that  Polliter 
should  have  had  the  same  inspiration  as  he,  Fav- 
erol,  had  experienced.  Faverol  was,  really,  mar- 
vellously keen  witted;  he  came  very  near  to 
guessing  Pointer's  reason  for  stopping  him  in  the 
drive. 

Decidedly,  there  had  been  a  burglary,  and  this 
Gautil  had  some  urgent  reasons  for  trying  to  con- 
ceal that  fact.  But  there  was  a  chance  that  Gautil 
could  explain.  If,  say,  the  pictures  were  (humiliat- 
ing thought !)  merely  copies — if  he  had  kept  silence 
from  fear  of  his  old  enemies — then  he,  Faverol,  was 
a  miserable  failure — a  simpleton — an  imbecile. 
He  had  caught  at  a  shadow  and  allowed  the  sub- 
stance to  elude  him. 


376        Kit  Polliter  "Sells  a  Pup" 

All  these  questions  and  answers  seethed  through 
Faverol's  brain,  while  he  appeared  to  be  engrossed 
in  a  prolonged  perusal  of  the  discovery  of  the 
schooner  Coal  Sack  in  the  far  distant  South 
Seas. 

"The  thought  is  indeed  alarming,"  he  said 
presently,  handing  back  the  newspaper  cutting. 
"And  I  think  you  are  right  in  your  conclusions. 
Your  one  hope  is  that  you  yourself  have  not  been 
recognised.  When  did  you  first  realise  that  this — 
er — George  Heron  was  Andre  Gaspard?" 

"Last  Wednesday  night,"  Gautil  replied,  with 
half  a  truth.  "I  found  him  dining  here  upon  my 
return  home. " 

"Phoo!  Dining  here!  But  had  you  no  reason 
previously  to  suspect  that  these  thieves,  these 
enemies  of  yours,  were  in  the  neighbourhood?" 

"  None  whatever. "  It  would  never  do  to  admit 
the  burglary  until  it  was  absolutely  forced  upon 
him. 

Faverol  renewed  the  attack.  "H'm,"  he  ob- 
served in  self -reproof,  pursing  his  lips,  "that  was 
an  unnecessary  question.  But  let  me  see,  now ;  do 
you  think  the  rascals  came  here,  in  the  first  in- 
stance with  designs  on  your  'collection' — or  was 
revenge  on  you  their  primary  and  only  motive?" 

"I  could  not  say,"  Gautil  answered. 


Kit  Polliter  " Sells  a  Pup"        377 

"No?  But  you  removed  your  collection  before 
you  recognised  this  Heron?" 

Gautil  assumed  a  puzzled  expression;  then  his 
face  cleared.  "Yes,  that  is  so,"  he  admitted. 
"And,  perhaps,  it  was  as  well  that  I  did.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,"  he  added  carelessly,  "I  had 
intended  to  do  so  long  ago.  I  wanted  the  room  for 
a  billiard  room." 

Faverol  nodded,  as  though  his  thoughts  had 
flitted  elsewhere.  Then,  with  the  remark  that 
time  was  precious,  and  an  admonition  to  Gautil  to 
rest  tranquil  now  that  he,  Faverol,  was  watching 
over  him,  the  little  police  agent  made  a  hurried 
departure. 

Half  an  hour  later,  not  far  beyond  the  drive 
gates,  the  brougham  bearing  Sebastien  Gautil 
to  Ardley  Station,  en  route  for  London — and 
obscurity — picked  up  an  unbidden  passenger. 

He  was  M.  Faverol,  whose  one  fear  was  that 
some  vulgar  urchins  might  discover  him  and  glee- 
fully holloa  to  Hatt  to  "Whip  be'ind!" 


CHAPTER  XVI 


IT  IS  "good-bye,"  comrades 


A  LL  day  long  from  the  Hook  to  Rotterdam  the 
**  intermittent  blasts  of  steamers'  sirens  gave 
warning  of  the  coming  fog.  Outside,  unruffled  by 
the  tiniest  cat  spa  w,  the  North  Sea  brooded  under 
a  dense  white  pall;  and,  as  night  fell,  there  sprang 
up  a  gentle  westerly  breeze,  which  wafted  the 
swirling  drifts  up  the  Maas  and  over  the  low-lying 
lands,  and  then,  as  if  its  mission  had  been  accom- 
plished, left  the  sea  mist  to  redouble  the  dark- 
ness settling  down  upon  the  northern  "City  of 
Canals." 

Gradually  all  water-borne  traffic  was  suspended ; 
the  steamers'  sirens  became  silent,  giving  place 
to  the  ghostly  tinkle  of  invisible  anchor  bells. 

The  Ziegelstraat,  having  a  reputation  to  main- 
tain, seemed  to  have  appropriated  more  than  its 
share  of  the  fog ;  and  long  before  the  labour  for  the 
day  should  have  ceased,  the  hatch  boards  of  the 
long  barges  had  been  banged  down,  the  warehouses 

378 


It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades     379 

closed,  and  the  last  lorry  gone  rumbling  away  over 
the  cobblestones. 

With  the  exception  of  the  night  watchmen, 
supposedly  patrolling  the  wharves  and  the  ware- 
houses, Van  Langenberg,  perhaps,  was  the  one 
individual  who  had  not  groped  his  way  from  the 
silent  street.  High  up  in  his  luxurious  eyrie  the 
1  little  Dutchman '  fretted  through  the  long  hours ; 
nor  could  frequent  visits  to  his  cellar  beneath  the 
bed  allay  his  restlessness. 

A  superb  quarter-chiming  ormolu  clock  under  a 
glass  dome  gave  out  its  melodious  warning.  A 
quarter  to  ten.  Van  Langenberg  drained  his 
glass;  for  the  fiftieth  time  he  picked  up  a  revolver 
from  the  little  octagonal  table  and  spun  its  dulled 
chambers ;  then,  pocketing  the  weapon,  he  seized  his 
bull's-eye  lantern  and  descended  to  the  big  "office " 
below.  Opening  the  tiny  window  over  the  alley,  he 
put  out  his  head  and  waited,  listening  intently. 

At  ten  minutes  past  the  hour  a  tall,  heavy 
man  entered  the  Ziegelstraat  at  its  western  end. 
Experiencing  a  sense  of  security  in  the  enshroud- 
ing darkness,  he  clattered  boldly  over  the  cobbles, 
totally  unaware  that  he  had  company- -a  little 
man  who,  rubber-shod,  kept  soundless  step  for 
step  with  him. 

The  fog  seemed  to  cause  the  tall  man  no  hin- 


380      It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades 

drance ;  he  found  the  turning  into  the  narrow  alley 
as  by  instinct  and  swung  round  into  it  without 
hesitation.  The  footsteps  ceased.  Three  pecu- 
liar coughs  broke  the  silence;  there  was  an  echo, 
as  it  were,  in  the  fog  above ;  then  more  quick  foot- 
steps— and  again  the  alley  settled  down  to  its 
sombre  silence. 

The  unsuspected  "shadow"  had  lagged  behind 
a  little  and  stood  motionless  at  the  entrance  to 
the  alley.  "Phoo!"  he  breathed,  expelling  the 
breath  which  had  momentarily  extended  his  rosy 
cheeks.  "Gone  to  earth — has  he,  the  fox!  Now, 
we  will  dig  him  out." 

The  time  had  come  when  the  active  assistance  of 
his  professional  brethren  was  necessary.  Well, 
this  had  all  been  arranged  for;  if  instructions  and 
promises  had  been  carried  out,  assistance  should 
be  waiting  in  the  square  little  more  than  two  hun- 
dred yards  away.  The  little  man  beat  a  noiseless 
retreat  along  the  Ziegelstraat.  He,  too,  appeared 
to  suffer  no  inconvenience  from  the  fog;  but  then, 
his  name  was  Henri  Faverol!  And  there  was 
hardly  one  city  in  Europe  through  which  M.  Fav- 
erol could  not  find  his  way  blindfold. 

Meanwhile,  with  even  more  excessive  regard 
for  precaution  than  usual,  Van  Langenberg  had 
admitted  his  visitor. 


It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades     381 

"You  are  late,  partner!"  the  Dutchman  said 
angrily,  after  he  had  closed  the  secret  door  and 
satisfied  himself  as  to  the  tall  man's  identity  by 
flashing  the  lantern's  rays  upon  his  face. 

"Bah!  A  few  minutes,  more  or  less.  Keep 
your  temper.  Console  yourself  it  is  for  the  last 
time.  Let  us  go  upstairs.  I  have  much  to  tell 
you." 

"So  much  to  tell  me!"  Van Langenberg  sneered. 
"Well,  it  can  wait.  You  go  upstairs.  I  wait 
down  here." 

"You've  been  drinking,  Langenberg.  Don't 
be  a  fool. " 

"I  say,  I  wait  here.  I  have  business — very  big 
business — with  a  friend  of  yours.  A  fool,  am  I?" 
Van  Langenberg  went  on,  with  increasing  acri- 
mony. "And  a  few  minutes  more  or  less  make  no 
difference,  hey?  You  wait  just  a  few  more  of 
those  don't-matter  minutes  and  see  for  yourself." 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  mean?"  his  partner 
demanded.  "Is  anything  wrong?  If  so,  speak  so 
that  I  can  understand  you." 

Something  in  his  visitor's  voice  warned  Van 
Langenberg  that  further  trifling  would  be  unwise. 

"Very  well, "  he  replied,  with  a  quick  change  of 
tone.  "  I  speak  plain.  You  cable  to  say  you  will 
arrive  at  ten.     You  come  at  10.15.     And  I  tell  you 


382      It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades 

that  at  10.30,  my  gentleman,  the  'German  travel- 
ler '  is  coming.  Hey?  You  do  not  like  that! 
Now,  tell  me — am  I  a  fool  to  be  angry  because 
you  are  late?" 

The  tall  man  drew  in  a  quick,  deep  breath. 
"Keep  your  deuced  lantern  off  my  face,"  he 
growled.  "And  drop  your  fooling,  will  you?" 
he  added,  as  Van  Langenberg  chuckled  maliciously. 
Then:  "What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Do!"  Van  Langenberg  retorted.  "Do  what 
you  would  be  afraid  to  do,  partner.  Pestel  go 
upstairs  and  drink  my  cognac,  stuff  your  fingers  in 
your  ears,  and  by-and-by  I  will  come  up  and  hear 
all  about  your  troubles.  And  we  will  then  drink 
together  to  the  pleasant  journey  to  his  father,  the 
devil  on  two  sticks,  which  my  'German  traveller* 
will  have  begun.  I  have  got  something  to  tell  you, 
too.  It  is  about  the  necklace.  It  has  been  re- 
turned to  me.  But  for  the  present  you  go  upstairs, 
partner,  and  drink  my  cognac."  He  darkened 
the  lantern  with  a  snap,  and  moved  towards  the 
little  window. 

"Langenberg?" 

"Hey!     Not  gone?" 

"  Will  you  drop  your  fooling !  Listen,  I  tell  you ! 
I  forbid  you  to  fire  off  that  old  pistol  of  yours. 
You'll  rouse  all  the  night  watchmen  in  the  neigh- 


It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades     383 

bourhood.  Remember  our  rules.  At  a  pinch, 
I  command — you  obey." 

There  was  a  pause,  broken  by  the  Dutchman's 
unintelligible  mutterings.  "Very  well,"  he  said 
sullenly  in  a  low  voice.  "I  remember.  What  do 
you  want?  But  whisper.  The  time  is  near,  and 
I  have  the  window  open." 

"Give  me  the  lantern,  and  you  go  upstairs  and 
wait.     I  will  deal  with  your  visitor. " 

"No.  We  will  both  wait.  Hush!  There  is 
the  signal!" 

Van  Langenberg  put  his  head  through  the  win- 
dow and  coughed  three  times  very  quietly.  His 
partner  came  up  behind  him  and  took  possession 
of  the  lantern.  Van  Langenberg  offered  no  resist- 
ance. His  attention  was  fully  occupied.  In  the 
alley  below  some  one  had  repeated  the  signal  for 
a  second  time. 

"Who?"  the  Dutchman  called  down  softly  into 
the  fog. 

"  Ledgers — stationery, "  came  the  subdued  reply. 

"Feel  along  the  right  wall.  Inside  the  door — 
turn  to  the  right  and  come  up.  Be  careful — and 
silent!"  Van  Langenberg  withdrew  his  head  and 
closed  and  curtained  the  window.  "Now  we 
spiflicate  him!"  he  whispered  jubilantly;  then,  see- 
ing that  his  partner  had  opened  the  secret  door, 


384      It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades 

he  went  on  craftily:  "But  wait,  partner.  We 
must  arrange  plans.  Let  me  go  down.  I  am 
more  used  to  it  than  you.  I  will  not  shoot.  You 
stay  here;  and  when  he  comes  up,  you " 

"Go  upstairs,  do  you  hear?"  growled  the  other. 
He  knew  Van  Langenberg;  and,  moreover,  he 
suspected  that  the  Dutchman  was  more  than  half- 
intoxicated  and  would  be  reckless  enough — nay, 
he  intended  to  shoot  the  "German  traveller"  on 
sight,  promises  or  plans  to  the  contrary  not- 
withstanding. 

"No!    No!    No!"    Van    Langenberg   pleaded. 

"Very  well,"  rejoined  his  partner  decisively, 
"you  know  me.  If  you  don't  obey,  I  shall  warn 
him. "  The  lantern's  rays  fell  upon  the  door  lead- 
ing to  the  upper  room,  and  remained  there  steadily. 
"Are  you  going?" — inflexibly. 

Van  Langenberg  moved  silently  across  the  room. 

"You  will  go  to  your  own  apartment — and  stay 
there." 

The  Dutchman  made  no  reply.  He  was  too 
mortified  for  words.  The  bubble  of  his  vanity 
had  been  pricked.  Pretence  and  bluster  apart, 
he  had  known  all  along  that  his  grim  partner 
"suffered"  him — let  him  preen  himself — be  in- 
solent, familiar,  think  himself  an  equal.  But 
when  it  came  to  a  pinch.  .  .  .     And  it  was  in  the 


It  Is  " Good-Bye,' '  Comrades     385 

rules  of  their  partnership.  He,  Van  Langenberg, 
must  obey.  But  he  had  set  his  very  heart  on 
crying  quits  with  the  "German  traveller,"  who 
had  beaten  the  firm  of  Van  Langenberg  at  their 
own  game. 

Having  gained  his  eyrie,  the  Dutchman  extin- 
guished the  lamp;  then  he  dropped  on  hands  and 
knees  by  the  door,  and,  risking  apoplexy,  craned 
his  head  down  the  stairs.  Straining  his  ears  to 
catch  sounds  from  below,  he  failed  to  hear  stealthy 
movements  behind  him.  Suddenly  a  pair  of  hands 
gripped  his  throat ;  another  pair  of  hands  jerked 
him  over  upon  his  back ;  his  limbs  were  pinioned ; 
and  as  he  opened  his  mouth  in  a  vain  attempt  to 
sound  the  alarm  a  gag  was  thrust  within  his  jaws. 
Choked  almost  to  unconsciousness,  he  heard  one 
of  his  assailants  snigger  evilly. 

"Shut  up,  you  fool,"  said  another  voice  in  a 
whisper.     ' '  The  cord — quick ! ' ' 

Then  he  was  rolled  over  upon  his  side,  his 
wrists  were  pressed  behind,  his  ankles  forced 
backwards  to  meet  them,  and  he  was  left  to  lie, 
trussed  like  a  fowl.  His  captors  stood  up  and 
argued,  their  voices  barely  audible. 

"We  must  go  down  and  let  him  in,"  said  one. 

"No,"  rejoined  the  other  who  had  demanded 
the  cord.     "Our  orders  are  to  wait  up  here. " 


386      It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades 

"But  we've  got  this  fat  pig." 

"We  don't  know  he's  our  man." 

"Let's  have  a  look  at  him." 

"  No  lights  on  this  job.  Remember  your  orders, 
you  fool !  Andy  will  kill  you  if  you  get  monkey- 
ing again.  And  be  quiet !  There  may  be  another 
below." 

"P'st!  that's  right  enough.".  .  .  The  faintest 
ray  of  light  seemed  to  flicker  at  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs.  .  .  .     "Look!" 

"Quiet!" 

From  below  came  a  smothered  cry ;  the  flicker  of 
light  faded  away  suddenly  into  pitch  darkness, 
and  there  was  the  dull  sound  as  of  a  heavy  body 
falling  to  the  floor.     Then  the  silence  of  the  grave. 

"He's  got  him!"  the  speaker  gasped,  as  if  the 
breath  had  been  knocked  out  of  him  by  a  blow 
from  his  companion's  elbow. 

Presently  a  low,  snake-like  hiss  rustled  the 
stillness.  The  signal  was  answered,  and  the  two 
men  went  quietly  down  the  stairs  to  Van  Langen- 
berg's  long  "office." 

"The  rope,"  demanded  the  voice  of  Andre 
Gaspard  out  of  the  darkness. 

"We've  used  it,  guv'nor — already,"  Jean 
sniggered. 

"I  said  the  rope!     Fetch  it!"  Gaspard  replied, 


It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades     387 

in  cool  tones.  His  sense  of  touch  had  told  him 
that  the  big,  bearded  man  under  him  was  not  Van 
Langenberg ;  but  this  was  not  the  time  for  explana- 
tions, and  Gaspard  guessed  the  meaning  of  Jean's 
words. 

Jean  darted  back  to  the  upper  room.  Outside 
the  window,  doubled  round  a  short  steel  bar  fixed 
securely  in  the  roof,  a  rope  was  suspended.  Jean 
pulled  on  the  one  part,  and,  coiling  the  rope  in  his 
hand,  hastened  back  with  it  to  his  companions. 
Though  they  could  not  see  an  inch  before  their 
eyes,  Polliter  and  Jean  set  to  work  with  extra- 
ordinary celerity.  A  gag  was  quickly  improvised ; 
and  soon,  without  a  word  having  been  spoken, 
the  second  member  of  the  firm  of  Van  Langenberg 
lay  tightly  bound,  trussed  as  his  partner  had  been. 

Gaspard  did  not  take  part  in  the  process.  As 
soon  as  the  gag  had  been  inserted  he  released  his 
grip  and  began  searching  about  for  the  lantern 
which  had  been  extinguished  on  falling  to  the  floor. 
The  last  knot  tied,  Jean  sat  by  the  side  of  the 
captive  and  passed  his  long,  flexible  fingers  over 
the  man's  face.  Prompted  by  curiosity,  or,  it 
may  be,  by  malice,  he  gave  the  beard  a  vicious 
tweak. 

"Guv'nor!"  Jean  said  suddenly.  "This  par- 
ishioner's beard's  a  fake. " 


388      It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades 

"Very  likely,"  Gaspard  replied  carelessly.  He 
had  found  the  lantern  and,  with  his  back  turned, 
was  engaged  in  manipulating  the  oil  receptacle 
which  had  become  misplaced  in  the  fall.  He 
struck  a  match  and  lighted  the  wick ;  then  he  swept 
the  light  around  the  room.  The  rays  fell  upon  a 
lamp  upon  Van  Langenberg's  big  desk. 

"Light  it,"  he  said  curtly. 

As  Polliter  crossed  to  the  desk  to  obey,  Gaspard 
shone  the  "bull's-eye"  upon  the  captive's  face. 

"Who  is  he,  guv'nor?"  Jean  inquired. 

Instantly  Gaspard  turned  the  lantern  away. 
1 '  Kit ! "  he  said  in  a  strange  voice.  ' '  The  lamp  can 
wait."  Then,  to  Jean:  "He  is  not  the  'little 
Dutchman.'  Stay  here,  both  of  you,"  he  added. 
"And,  remember,  no  light  until  I  return.  I  shall 
not  be  more  than  three  minutes." 

With  this  command  Gaspard  left  them  in  the 
darkness,  and  went  up  to  Van  Langenberg's  pri- 
vate apartment.  His  subordinates  heard  him 
choking,  as  if  he  were  vainly  trying  to  suppress 
uproarious  merriment. 

"Guv'nor  seems  to  find  it  funny,  don't  he?" 
Jean  remarked. 

Polliter  did  not  reply.  He,  too,  was  puzzled 
by  his  leader's  behaviour;  but  he  had  never  dis- 
cussed him  with  Jean,  and  did  not  intend  to  begin 


It  Is  •  'Good-Bye,"  Comrades     389 

to  do  so  now.  Jean  made  some  highly  insulting 
observations  on  his  comrade's  reticence,  and  they 
relapsed  into  silence. 

Gaspard  kept  his  promise.  Not  more  than 
three  minutes  elapsed  before  he  returned,  shutting 
both  staircase  doors  behind  him. 

"Yes,"  he  remarked,  carefully  abstaining  from 
shining  the  lantern  upon  the  captive,  "yes,  that 
is  the  '  little  Dutchman '  upstairs.  But  he  is  stub- 
born. We  will  attend  to  him  later.  You  may 
light  the  lamp,  Kit.  Jean,  take  the  '  bull's-eye ' 
and  go  down  the  steps  behind  you.  Be  careful. 
One  step  is  missing.  Use  your  gifts  to  discover 
how  the  door  into  the  alley  works.  But  do  not 
open  it." 

The  job  was  one  after  Jean's  own  heart;  he 
seized  the  lantern  and,  as  Polliter  struck  a  match 
and  lighted  the  lamp,  he  disappeared  round  the 
secret  cupboard  door  like  a  rat  into  a  crevice. 

Gaspard  strode  noiselessly  to  the  cupboard  and 
gently  pushed  it  to.  Hearing  the  click  of  the 
spring  lock,  Polliter  turned  round,  saw  what  his 
leader  had  done,  and  realised  its  significance. 
Jean  had  been  deliberately  shut  out.  But  why 
the  ghoulish  expression  of  mirth  in  Gaspard's  face? 

"What's  up,  Andy?"  Polliter  stammered,  sur- 
prised for  once  into  asking  a  question. 


39°      It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades 

Gaspard  broke  out  into  a  horrible  laugh.  "I 
promised  little  Jean  three  minutes,"  he  croaked. 
"He  has  had  them!  Look!"  he  added,  with  a 
jeering  shout  of  triumph,  pointing  to  the  man  at 
his  feet. 

Polliter  stared.  Was  Gaspard  mad?  For  some 
time  past  he  had  feared  so.  Then  an  inkling  of 
his  leader's  meaning  flashed  into  his  mind.  Pol- 
liter  sprang  forward — stooped — peered.  4 '  By — ! ' ' 
he  gasped.  "Gautil! — Courtois!  .  .  .  Andy!"  in 
a  hoarse,  awed  whisper — "you're  the  devil!" 

Who  else  could  have  contrived  this  climax? 

Gaspard  did  not  enlighten  his  subordinate 
that  the  deus  ex  machina  was  not  himself,  but, 
rather,  fate — or,  he  would  have  said,  his  "luck." 
Probably,  in  his  present  state  of  mind,  Gaspard 
hardly  heard  the  doubtful  compliment  Polliter 
had  paid  him. 

"  Realise  what  it  means,  Kit?"  Gaspard  inquired 
mockingly.  "Why  he's  here?  Why  he  knows 
all  the  secrets  of  the  'little  Dutchman's'  private 
entrance?  Once  a  'crook,'  always  a  'crook,'  Kit, 
ch?  How  about  his  'collection,'  eh?  They  are 
partners,  Kit.  Think  of  it!  Think  of  it!  And 
think  of  his  'collection'!  Collection!  And  now 
we  have  'collected'  them  both!"  Again  Gaspard 
broke  out  into  horrible  cachinnations. 


It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades     391 

Polliter  understood  quite  enough.  But, 
strangely,  he  found  nothing  but  a  growing 
terror  in  the  situation.  "What  are  you  going 
to  do  with  them?"  he  faltered,  clenching  and 
unclenching  his  fingers  in  a  way  that  showed  his 
nervous  tension. 

"Do  with  them!"  jeered  the  other.  "Bah! 
you  are  soft,  comrade.  Do  with  them?  Why, 
what  should  we  do?  Silent,  Kit?  Well,  I  will 
tell  you.  We  will  bleed  the  'little  Dutchman.' 
But  all  in  good  time.  First,  we  will  show  our  kind 
old  comrade  here  a  few — just  a  few — of  the  playful 
little  practical  jokes  we  learnt  from  our  friends 
on  the  charming  island  to  which  he  sent  us. 

"Twenty  years,  Kit  .  .  .  Surely,  we  do  not 
want  Jean  and  his  little  knife  yet,  eh?"  Gaspard 
added,  after  a  slight  pause.  His  voice  had  sud- 
denly become  restrained;  but  in  it  there  was  a 
hideous  menace  of  cruelty  to  come. 

The  man  at  his  feet  seemed  to  quiver,  then  he  lay 
quite  still. 

"Not  yet — eh,  friend  Courtois?"  Gaspard 
repeated,  prodding  him  with  a  foot. 

"Case-hardened"  as  his  life  had  made  him,  an 
intense,  overwhelming  repulsion  swept  over 
Polliter.  "Andy!"  he  managed  to  jerk  out. 
"Andy! — not  that!     Remember  what  you  said. 


392      It  Is  ' 'Good-Bye,"  Comrades 

We — you  and  I — we  were  gentlemen  once.  We 
can't  do  it.  Andy!" — the  pleading  came  with  a 
rush  now.  "Make  him  pay — beggar  him.  He 
won't  split.  He  daren't.  He  can't.  But  I  won't 
stand  by  and  see — curse  it!     I  can't!" 

Like  a  flash  Polliter  whipped  out  a  revolver. 
What  he  intended  to  do — to  shoot  his  leader,  or 
mercifully  to  give  his  old  enemy  quittance — will 
always  remain  unsolved;  but  one  thing  is  certain. 
Polliter,  usually  so  phlegmatic,  so  silent,  so  tract- 
able, had  rebelled  at  last;  and,  as  is  the  way  with 
men  of  his  type,  he  was  in  deadly  earnest  and 
exceedingly  " dangerous." 

But  even  as  Polliter  levelled  the  weapon,  he 
perceived  that  the  quick,  savage  menace  which  had 
sprung  into  his  leader's  eyes  had  faded  away, 
leaving  Gaspard  gazing  dreamily  into  space.  A 
sudden  reaction  broke  Pointer's  nerve.  Almost 
furtively  he  slid  the  revolver  back  into  his  pocket. 
For  the  nonce,  Courtois  was  completely  forgotten. 

"Andy!"  Polliter  faltered  presently.  "Andy! 
What  is  it?  Rouse  yourself!"  He  ventured  to 
touch  him,  and  even  to  shake  the  rigid  form 
gently.  But  Gaspard  remained  immovable,  lost 
to  the  world,  the  very  breath  of  life,  as  it  were, 
gone  out  of  him. 

With  startling  suddenness  came  the  sound  of 


It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades     393 

splintering  glass;  one  of  Van  Langenberg's  heavy 
ledgers  fell  to  the  floor;  and  Polliter,  wheeling 
round,  was  just  in  time  to  see  the  blunt  point  of  a 
steel  tool  being  withdrawn  through  the  back  of 
the  cupboard.  Then  a  beseeching  whisper  reached 
his  ears. 

"Guv'nor! — guv'nor! — police! — look  out  for 
yourself,  guv'nor ! "  The  whisper  went  on  unceas- 
ingly. 

There  was  good  reason  for  the  warning.  Find- 
ing himself  trapped,  Jean  had  run  down  the  steps 
again  and  put  the  knowledge  he  had  acquired  to 
the  test. 

Opening  the  alley  door,  he  ran  into  the  Ziegel- 
straat.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  apply  his  tools 
to  force  open  the  street  door  of  Van  Langenberg's 
office,  his  sharp  ears  caught  the  sound  of  footsteps. 

Darting  back  into  the  alley,  he  waited;  he 
heard  whispered  orders  that  left  no  doubt  as  to  the 
identity  of  the  newcomers.  Escape  for  himself 
by  way  of  the  canal  was  easy;  but,  curiously 
enough,  the  idea  never  entered  his  bizarre  mind. 

Jean  fled  back  to  the  secret  stairway,  conscious 
only  of  a  wild  desire  to  warn  the  grim  leader  and 
master  who  so  often  had  treated  him  like  a  dog,  had 
beaten  him  unmercifully. 

Within    the    long    "office,"    Jean's    whispered 


394      It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades 

caution  seemed  to  rouse  Gaspard  from  his  dream- 
like seizure  and  bring  him  smoothly  back  to  reali- 
ties. But  it  was  not  the  Gaspard  of  two  minutes 
ago  who  now  spoke.  Rather  it  was  George  Heron, 
or,  perhaps,  the  elderly  gentleman  who,  in  Pol- 
liter's  London  chambers,  had  admitted  that  he 
was  "changed " ;  that  he  was  a  human  being  again; 
that  he  hesitated  for  fear  of  "hurting  others. " 

"Kit,"  he  said  in  matter-of-fact  tones,  "look 
down  into  the  alley,  will  you?" 

Assured  of  his  leader's  return  to  sanity,  Polliter 
gasped  with  relief.  Then  he  ran  to  the  little 
window  and  peered  down.  The  fog  had  thinned 
a  trifle,  and  through  the  murk  he  thought  he  saw 
the  darker  forms  of  men  waiting  in  silence. 

"Right  enough,"  he  announced  gravely,  turn- 
ing from  the  window.  "There  are  men  down 
there." 

"Go  up  and  bargain  with  the  'little  Dutchman* 
for  his  freedom,"  Gaspard  commanded.  "I  will 
do  the  same  for" — he  hesitated — "Gautil.  Be 
quick!     We  shall  have  them  in  on  us  soon." 

Polliter  rushed  up  the  stairs.  Gaspard 's  use  of 
the  nam^  Gautil  had  allayed  a  recurrence  of  his 
misgivings. 

Gaspard  began  dexterously  to  cut  free  the  rope 
binding  the  man  at  his  feet.     "Friend  Courtois, " 


It  Is  *  'Good-Bye/'  Comrades     395 

he  said,  "you  also  are  in  a  fix.  The  police — you 
understand.  But  for  the  sake  of  others,  I  am 
giving  you  a  chance  of  escape.  You  will  pay  for 
it — I  will  see  to  that.  But,  now" — he  rolled 
Courtois  over  upon  his  back  and  plucked  out  the 
gag — "tell  me:  how  does  one  open  the  cupboard 
behind  you?" 

But  a  long  glance  told  him  that  his  question 
would  never  be  answered.  Hippolyte  Courtois 
was  dead! 

Gaspard  rose  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
Without  haste  he  crossed  to  the  cupboard,  and, 
flinging  out  Van  Langenberg's  ledgers,  he  struck 
the  back  with  his  fist.  Jean's  agitated  whisper 
ceased. 

"Jean!"  Gaspard  said  distinctly.  "Can  you 
hear?  .  .  .  Very  well.  Listen!  I  have  kept  my 
promise  to  you.  You  have  had  your  three  min- 
utes with  a  friend,  Courtois,  here  in  this  room. 
But,  comrade,  he  has  gone  to  join  Captain  Black; 
therefore  you  must  not  complain.  It  is  a  just 
retribution  for  broken  orders.  So,  little  Jean, 
it  is  'good-bye.'  I  thank  you  for  your  warning, 
and  I  will  prove  my  gratitude.  Go  down  to  the 
alley  door;  wait  until  you  hear  me  knock;  then 
save  yourself." 

Gaspard  strode  to  the  window   and  jerked  it 


396      It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades 

open.  "Hi!"  he  shouted  in  Dutch.  "Round 
to  Dopplander's  warehouse !  Quick !  They  have 
escaped  over  the  roof!" 

A  rush  of  feet  below  followed  his  stratagem, 
and,  smiling  grimly,  Gaspard  sprang  to  the  cup- 
board and  thundered  upon  the  back  of  it  with  a 
heavy  ledger. 

At  the  moment  Polliter  came  flying  down  the 
stairs,  one  hand  gripping  a  heavy  necklace  of 
pearls,  the  other  his  revolver.  "Explained 
terms,"  he  jerked  out  in  a  staccato  whisper — 
"ungagged  him — told  me  to  look  in  wine-case 
under  bed — found  this — recognise  it? — worth  a 
fortune — went  to  free  him — dead!" 

"Alcoholic  apoplexy,"  Gaspard  replied  coolly, 
taking  the  ropes  of  pearls  from  Pointer's  grasp 
and  gazing  at  them  indifferently.  "Yes,  they're 
worth  a  fortune;  but  if  the  'little  Dutchman' 
couldn't  get  rid  of  them  we  cannot  now.  A  trick, 
I  expect.  But  what  are  our  friends  the  police 
waiting  for?" 

A  loud  hammering  upon  the  door  leading  down 
to  the  clerk's  office  answered  his  question,  and  a 
crisp  voice  was  heard  demanding  admittance  in 
the  name  of  all  that  stood  for  the  authority  of  the 
law. 

Polliter  began  to  twitch  with  impatient  excite- 


It  Is  " Good- Bye,"  Comrades     397 

ment.  " Roof's  no  good,"  he  whispered.  "Jean 
pulled  in  the  rope  for  him" — jerking  his  head  in 
the  direction  of  Courtois's  still  body. 

"Keep  cool,"  Gaspard  said,  with  exasperating 
slowness.  "The  'little  Dutchman '  was  an  au- 
thority on  doors.  That  is  why  you  and  Jean  had 
to  get  in  by  the  window." 

"But,  Andy!     How  are  we  to  get  out?" 

Gaspard  pointed  in  silence  to  the  far  end  of  the 
long  "office."  A  glance  at  Van  Langenberg's 
crane,  with  the  rope  ready  rove  in  the  sheave, 
robbed  Polliter  of  his  nervous  anxiety.  At  this 
fresh  proof  of  his  leader's  resource  his  own  coolness 
in  an  emergency  came  back  to  him.  He  grinned 
admiringly. 

"What  about  Courtois?"  he  inquired. 

"Stubborn,"  Gaspard  replied.  "Let  him  lie." 
Then  he  laughed  contemptuously,  and,  taking  a 
quick  step  towards  the  staircase,  he  flung  the 
necklace  up  into  Van  Langenberg's  eyrie.  "Let 
him  keep  it,"  he  said.  "Come  on,  Kit.  Our 
friends  outside  are  getting  impatient." 

The  necessity  for  haste,  at  last,  had  become 
apparent  even  to  Gaspard,  for  the  door  was  quiver- 
ing, and  his  experienced  eye  told  him  that  a 
powerful  jemmy  was  at  work. 

They  ran  to  the  recessed  window.     The  trap- 


398      It  Is  " Good-Bye,"  Comrades 

door  was  quickly  found  and  lifted;  the  crane 
was  swung  out  and  the  coil  of  rope  dropped  through 
the  aperture. 

"You  first,"  Gaspard  said,  pushing  the  rope 
towards  his  companion. 

Polliter  wavered.  A  lifetime's  allegiance  swayed 
him.  He  took  a  quick  step  backwards.  "No!" 
he  growled  doggedly.  "I  don't  forget  your  'AH 
or  none.'     You  first,  Andy,  this  time." 

"Foolish — but  like  you!"  laughed  his  leader. 
"Kit,  you  are  soft — but  you  are  a  gentleman. 
New  Caledonia  cannot  rob  us  of  all,  eh?  Well — if 
you  insist — it  is  'good-bye'  at  last,  comrade." 
He  grasped  the  two  parts  of  the  rope.  "Better 
put  the  light  out,  Kit,"  he  advised.  Then  he 
slid  out  of  sight. 

Polliter  turned  to  run  across  the  room  to  the 
lamp;  but  at  the  same  instant  there  was  a  sharp 
crack,  the  door  burst  open,  and  a  rosy-cheeked 
little  man  bounced  lightly  into  the  "office."  One 
quick  stare  was  enough. 

"'Jacobs'!"  Faverol  shouted,  in  exultant  aston- 
ishment. Even  now  he  could  not  resist  his  love  for 
a  little  pleasantry.  But  a  hand  whipped  into  his 
coat  pocket. 

"Mister  Faver!"  Polliter  retorted,  with  a  bitter 
laugh — fired  at  him — and  missed. 


It  Is  "Good-Bye,"  Comrades     399 

Almost  simultaneously  the  aperture  of  Faverol's 
coat  pocket  bulged  open.  A  second  loud  report. 
Polliter  dropped  his  weapon,  stared  stupidly,  then 
crumpled  to  the  floor. 

But  Andre  Gaspard  had  escaped,  unseen; 
his  presence  even,  unsuspected:  "Invisible"  to 
the  very  last. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


FAVEROL  LEARNS  THE      BIG  LESSON 


>» 


IT  is  curious  how,  in  the  long  run,  luck  almost 
*  invariably  ranges  itself  on  the  side  of  the  forces 
which  society — that  is  to  say,  the  herd — main- 
tains to  protect  itself  against  the  egregious. 

Kit  Polliter  was  a  criminal,  and,  therefore, 
egregious;  and  it  has  already  been  shown  how 
luck,  and  nothing  but  luck,  enabled  M.  Henri 
Faverol  to  call  him  to  a  final,  worldly  account. 
As  will  be  seen  later,  the  same  abstract  power 
figured  largely  in  the  case  of  Jean,  "the  Rat. " 

At  the  time  of  the  disappearance  of  Andre 
Gaspard  and  his  two  comrades  a  native  insurrec- 
tion was  harassing  the  authorities  in  New  Caledonia 
to  such  an  extent  that  they  were  only  too  pleased 
to  accept  circumstantial  evidence,  and,  as  it 
were,  to  wipe  the  "Invisibles"  completely  off  their 
books. 

Shortly  afterwards,  it  happened  that  a  punitive 
force,  ranging  the  country  between  Mount  Kopeto 

400 


Learning  the  "Big  Lesson"      401 

and  Mueo  Bay,  had  occasion  to  pay  an  official  call 
upon  a  cannibal  village  hidden  away  in  a  nullah. 
Being  unprepared  to  receive  their  visitors,  the 
natives  fled  hastily. 

The  punitive  force  was  aggrieved;  but  they 
were  somewhat  consoled  by  discovering  in  a  dwell- 
ing which,  judging  from  the  grisly  relics  festooning 
the  entrance,  had  once  harboured  a  most  unsav- 
oury "wizard,"  certain  Government  property — to 
wit,  garments  which,  beyond  doubt,  had  formerly 
adorned  the  bodies  of  the  three  missing  convicts. 

The  inference  seemed  obvious;  though  sub- 
sequently, when  several  of  the  fleeing  villagers  had 
been  captured  and  arraigned  upon  the  capital 
charge,  their  headman,  through  the  mouth  of  an 
interpreter,  emphatically  denied  that  murder  had 
been  done,  or  that  his  people's  peculiar  tastes  had 
been  gratified. 

He  explained  with  much  detail  that  the  former 
occupiers  of  the  garments  in  question  had  fled 
across  the  "big  water,"  and  he  offered  to  lead  his 
captors  to  the  mouth  of  a  little  river,  whence,  he 
asseverated,  the  three  white  men  had  taken  their 
departure. 

The  headman,  however,  merely  gained  the  credit 
of  being,  for  a  nigger,  a  most  resourceful  liar,  and 
he  was  promptly  shot.  No  doubt  his  decease  was 
26 


402       Learning  the  "Big  Lesson" 

advisable,  as  a  warning  to  others  brought  up  in 
the  cannibalistic  ritual. 

In  the  excitement  of  the  campaign  the  incident 
was  temporarily  forgotten ;  but  when  the  insurrec- 
tion had  been  quelled  and  the  punitive  force  had 
returned  to  Noumea,  it  learned  that  a  garrulous 
South  Sea  skipper  had  recently  brought  from 
Sydney  well-thumbed  newspapers  containing  full 
details  of  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  "  Near- 
enough  Black, "  and  of  the  finding  of  that  unfortu- 
nate captain's  schooner,  Coal  Sack,  upon  the  high 
seas,  and,  in  addition,  many  theories  which  might 
account  for  the  extraordinary  story  narrated  by 
her  short-lived  Kanaka  survivor. 

The  defunct  headman's  assertions  were  at 
once  recalled;  and,  in  view  of  the  corroborative 
evidence  of  the  Sydney  journalistic  "scoop,"  it 
appeared  highly  probable  that  Andre  Gaspard, 
Kit  Polliter,  and  that  execrable  fount  of  trouble, 
Jean  "the  Rat,"  had,  after  all,  made  good  their 
escape  from  the  island. 

Outwardly,  authority  in  Noumea  shrugged  its 
shoulders  and  paid  no  heed  to  the  matter;  never- 
theless, before  many  months  passed,  the  police  of 
the  civilised  world  became  acquainted  with  the 
ominous  fact  that  three  especial  undesirables  had 
unceremoniously  taken  their  leave  from  the  French 


Learning  the  "Big  Lesson"      403 

penal  settlement  in  New  Caledonia,    and    once 
again  were  gentlemen  at  large. 

In  particular,  a  certain  weary-eyed  chief  of 
secret  police  in  Paris  had  at  his  disposal  all  the 
information  concerning  the  escape  of  the  erst- 
while notorious  gang,  formerly  known  as  the 
"Invisibles,"  that  authority  in  Noumea  had  been 
able  to  collect.  And  a  search  into  the  police 
records  of  twenty  years  ago  for  additional  infor- 
mation relative  to  the  gang  did  not  serve  to  soothe 
the  mind  of  the  already  overworked  chief. 

As  some  sort  of  set-off  to  this  additional  source 
of  anxiety,  ten  days  after  the  information  from 
New  Caledonia  reached  him,  the  chief  received 
a  report  from  the  absent  M.  Henri  Faverol  which 
made  him  unusually  jubilant,  but,  at  the  same 
time,  not  a  little  exasperated ;  for  Faverol's  report 
was  brief  in  the  extreme,  and  it  lacked  just  those 
details  which  the  expectant  chief  particularly 
desired. 

He  telegraphed  at  once  to  Faverol,  urgently 
demanding  his  presence  in  Paris  immediately  the 
police  inquiry  into  the  Ziegelstraat  affair  then 
taking  place  in  Rotterdam'  could  dispense  with  his 
services  as  chief  witness.  Faverol,  for  his  part, 
was  glad  of  the  delay;  he  deemed  it  in  every  way 
more  prudent   to  make  a  full  report  in  person; 


404       Learning  the  "Big  Lesson" 

and  he  wanted  time  to  work  out  a  plausible  ex- 
planation of  the  "little  irregularities"  of  which 
he  had  been  guilty  in  following  up  his  "  private 
case." 

The  little  police  agent  had  concealed  his  know- 
ledge that  the  unknown  man  whom  he  had  shot 
in  self-defence  was  Kit  Polliter,  one  of  the  "In- 
visibles," allowing  the  Dutch  police  to  hold  such 
theories  as  they  thought  fit.  And  it  may  be 
said  that,  so  far,  the  general  public,  as  apart  from 
the  police,  knew  little  of  the  whole  affair,  except 
that  the  famous  Polignac  necklace  of  pearls  stolen 
from  the  Duchess  of  Belward  had  at  last  been 
recovered. 

In  due  time  Faverol  was  released  from  his 
official  duties  in  Rotterdam.  He  hastened  at  once 
to  Paris  and  presented  himself  before  his  chief. 
Faverol  was  in  an  extraordinarily  chastened  mood. 

Although  he  felt  convinced  that  Sebastien 
Gautil  (alias  Hippoly  te  Courtois)  and  Van  Langen- 
berg  were  the  mysterious  rogues  he  had  been 
commissioned  to  trace,  he  was  almost  lachrymose 
over  the  climax  in  the  Ziegelstraat  which  had 
robbed  him  of  complete  success  in  the  "double 
event,"  for  he  knew  that  in  all  probability  such 
clever  rascals  as  Andre  Gaspard  and  Jean  would 
take  warning  by  their  comrade's  death,  and,  true 


Learning  the  "Big  Lesson"      405 

to  their  old  name,  " Invisibles,"  they  would  fade 
away  into  thin  air. 

Had  it  not  been  for  his  characteristic  vanity  and 
the  insatiable  desire  to  clutch  at  every  bit  of  kudos 
that  could  be  gained  from  the  affair,  Faverol  would 
have  been  tempted  to  conceal  his  "  private  case," 
altogether.  But  the  two  cases  were  inextricably 
mixed  up,  and  he  was  mortified  to  find  that  even 
his  astute  brains  could  not  extract  from  the  tangle 
a  story  which  he  could  be  sure  would  satisfy  his 
equally  astute  chief. 

Full  and  open  confession,  with  detail  from  start 
to  finish,  seemed  to  be  the  only  way  out  of  the 
difficulty.  But  Faverol  detested  the  idea  of  open 
confession,  for  he  could  not  claim  that  unqualified 
success  which  alone,  in  the  service  of  which  he  was 
a  member,  would  justify  his  " little  irregularities" 
and,  perhaps,  allow  them  to  be  overlooked. 

Yes,  there  was  no  doubt  of  it;  M.  Henri  Faverol 
was  unhappy;  and  he  wore  an  unusually  subdued 
air  when  he  entered  the  lofty,  drab,  sparsely  fur- 
nished chamber  which  served  his  grim  chief  as  an 
office. 

The  chief,  on  the  contrary,  appeared  to  be  in  a 
particularly  gracious  mood.  He  greeted  Faverol' s 
appearance  with  unqualified  enthusiasm,  again 
condescended   to   shake  hands,   and  offered   the 


406   Learning  the  "Big  Lesson" 

little  police  agent  warm  congratulations  upon  his 
safe  return. 

Faverol  began  to  reply  in  what  he  considered 
to  be  suitable  terms,  but  with  a  smile  his  chief 
cut  short  the  flowery  periods. 

"Let  us  dispense  with  compliments  for  the 
present,  M.  Faverol,"  he  said  eagerly.  "Your 
very  brief  report  has  roused  my  curiosity  to  a  de- 
gree which  the  scanty  details  I  have  been  able  to 
gather,  with  regard  to  the  inquiry  that  has  kept 
you  in  Rotterdam,  have  not  in  any  way  lessened. 
Tell  me — in  a  word — have  you  been  successful?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"Excellent!"  The  chief  rubbed  his  hands 
gleefully.  "  I  knew  I  was  right  to  place  confidence 
in  your  powers.  Excellent!  But  sit  down,  M. 
Faverol — sit  down.     You  look  tired. " 

Faverol  attempted  one  of  his  graceful,  grateful 
little  bows,  and  considering  that  it  might  be  useful 
to  play  the  part  of  a  worn-out  man,  he  sighed  with 
very  creditable  weariness  as  he  sank  into  the 
chair  indicated.  "  But  proof  is  difficult,  Monsieur. 
Time  alone  will  show,"  he  said,  qualifying  his 
last  assertion. 

His  chief  nodded.  "Quite  so — quite  so,"  he 
agreed.  "But  when  I  learned  that  the  Polignac 
necklace  had  been  discovered  in  Van  Langenberg's 


Learning  the  "Big  Lesson"      407 

possession,  I  myself  found  proof  enough.  What 
astounds  me  is  the  crass  blindness  of  the  Dutch 
police  all  these  years, "  he  added  with  heat. 

At  another  time  Faverol  would  have  seized 
the  opportunity  of  applying  a  little  "butter" — 
just  a  neat  comparison  between  the  Dutch  and 
the  French  heads  of  police;  but,  somehow,  the 
compliment  would  not  come,  and  he  found  himself 
saying:  "Yes,  Monsieur.  Especially  after  poor 
Manton's  death.  He  was  taken  from  the  canal 
not  two  hundred  yards  from  Van  Langenberg's 
warehouse." 

"Of  course — of  course,"  his  chief  agreed. 
"There  is  not  a  shred  of  doubt  in  my  mind  that 
Manton  ran  this  Van  Langenberg  to  ground, 
and  was  shot  by  him,  or  by  one  of  his  two 
confederates." 

One  of  his  two  confederates!  Faverol  moved 
uneasily  in  his  chair.  "There  can  be  no  doubt 
in  any  one's  mind,"  he  said.  "The  bullet  which 
was  extracted  from  Manton's  body  was  produced 
at  the  inquiry;  and  it  fitted  exactly  the  revolver 
found  in  Van  Langenberg's  pocket. 

"More  proof — more  proof,"  cried  his  chief 
delightedly.  "This  is  indeed  excellent.  But  be- 
fore we  go  into  detail,  who  were  Van  Langenberg's 
confederates?     Do  we  know  them?     This  Sebas- 


408       Learning  the  "Big  Lesson w 

tien  Gautil — an  alias,  of  course — and  the  man  you 
shot:  who  were  they?  There  is  barely  a  word 
about  them  here."  With  some  irritability  he 
tapped  a  bundle  of  papers  lying  upon  his  desk  in 
front  of  him. 

Faverol  felt  that  he  was  being  hustled.  His 
chief's  eagerness  was  embarrassing.  He  had 
intended  to  lead  up  to  this  part  of  his  problem  in 
his  own  particular  fashion.  "Monsieur,"  he 
began,  "Sebastien  Gautil  was  Arthur  Allerton,  the 
well-known  moneylender  in  London,"  he  hesi- 
tated, obviously. 

His  chief  uttered  an  exclamation  of  astonish- 
ment. "Go  on,"  he  said  sharply.  "What  the 
deuce  are  you  waiting  for?" 

In  spite  of  his  hesitation,  Faverors  character- 
istic love  of  a  "situation"  began  to  assert  itself. 
After  all,  he  thought,  it  would  be  rather  amusing 
to  watch  the  increasing  mystification  which  would 
presently  appear  in  his  chief's  face. 

"Twenty  years  ago,  Monsieur,"  Faverol  w< 
on  with  deliberate  slowness,  "this  Sebastien  Gau- 
til was  known  in  Paris  as  Hippolyte  Courtois,  the 
man  who  gained  a  police  reward  for  betraying  a 
gang  of  notorious  criminals  called  the  'Invisibles.' 
The  man  I  shot  dead  in  Rotterdam  was  Kit 
Polliter,  one  of — "     He  stopped.     His  chief  had 


Learning  the  "Big  Lesson"      409 

sprung  to  his  feet.  Mystification  was  amply  in 
evidence,  but,  somehow,  it  was  not  of  the  exact 
quality  Faverol  had  expected  or  desired. 

"The  'Invisibles'!  Kit  Pointer!''  the  chief 
almost  shouted.  "What  do  you  know  about  the 
'Invisibles'?" 

"Perhaps,  Monsieur,"  Faverol  suggested,  a 
trifle  uneasily,  "it  would  be  better  if  I  explained 
everything  in  my  own  way." 

His  chief  frowned,  then  he  laughed  shortly  and 
sat  down  again.  "You  are  either  a  wizard  or,  as 
M.  Lavigne  says,  the  luckiest  man  in  the  service," 
he  remarked,  stretching  an  arm  across  the  desk  and 
pulling  another  bundle  of  papers  towards  him. 
"Go  on — go  on." 

It  was  Faverol's  turn  now  to  be  mystified. 
But  as  his  chief's  words  and  manner  seemed  propi- 
tious, he  took  his  courage  in  both  hands  and  began 
his  tale.  Faverol  left  out  nothing— from  the 
morning  when  old  Louis  sidled  into  his  room  with 
information  for  sale,  until  the  conclusion  of  the 
recent  police  inquiry  in  Rotterdam. 

His  chief  did  not  once  interrupt;  but,  as  the 
narrative  proceeded,  the  droop  of  weary-looking 
eyes — eloquent  evidence  of  overwork  and  cease- 
less mental  strain — grew  more  pronounced,  as  if 
the   consciousness   of   the    futility  of  his   never- 


410       Learning  the  "Big  Lesson" 

ending  labours  was  slowly  wearing  down  his 
powers. 

Every  trace  of  its  previous  graciousness  towards 
his  subordinate  vanished  from  his  face  and  left 
it  wooden;  but  when  Faverol  had  finished,  the 
square  jaw  was  thrust  forward  a  little  more  than 
usual,  and  the  grey  eyes,  relentless  for  all  the  droop- 
ing of  the  lids,  glittered  in  a  way  that  made  the 
peccant  little  police  agent  feel  desperately  uncom- 
fortable. 

"You  realised  at  Beaudelay  that  you  might 
have  to  make  a  choice — to  follow  this  Gautil — or 
George  Heron,"  the  chief  said  slowly.  "And  yet, 
even  then,  you  did  not  communicate  with  me — or, 
as  I  could  have  understood,  with  Scotland  Yard. 
Why?" 

"Monsieur,"  Faverol  faltered,  "I  had  but 
suspicions  to  go  on.  We  could  not  have  arrested 
any  of  them."  It  was  a  feeble  excuse,  absolutely 
unworthy  of  Faverol ;  and  as  soon  as  he  had  made 
it,  Faverol  cursed  himself  bitterly  for  being  a 
jackass.     But  worse  was  to  follow. 

Because  it  suited  him,  the  chief  took  the  excuse 
literally.  "Could  we  not?"  he  retorted  grimly. 
He  detached  a  paper  from  the  packet  in  front  of 
him  and  handed  it  to  Faverol.  "I  quite  under- 
stand a  clever  man's  ambition,"  he  went  on  with 


Learning  the  "Big  Lesson"      411 

biting  scorn;  "but  read  that.  It  came  while  you 
were  at  Beaudelay.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
opportune.  Now,  all  its  worth  consists  in  the  fact 
that  it  shows  what  a  grasping,  self-opinionated, 
undisciplined  imbecile  M.  Faverol  has  made 
himself  appear." 

With  the  paper  quivering  in  his  trembling  hands, 
Faverol  rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  He  could  hardly 
believe  his  ears.  Never  before  had  such  words 
been  addressed  to  him. 

"Monsieur!"  he  began  in  indignant  protest. 
His  chief  cut  him  short. 

"Silence!"  he  commanded  in  a  voice  that 
b  rooked  no  reply .     ' '  Read  it ! " 

Faverol  saluted,  and  bent  his  head  over  the 
paper.  The  rosy  flush  on  his  cheeks  deepened  into 
carmine ;  but,  as  he  read  on,  his  face  grew  ashy  pale. 
For  the  document  set  forth  all  the  information 
concerning  the  escape  of  the  "Invisibles"  from 
New  Caledonia  which  authority  in  Noumea  had 
been  able  to  collect. 

Faverol  was  undergoing  the  big  lesson  which 
comes  to  every  man  at  least  once  in  a  lifetime.  He 
took  it  hardly.  His  emotional  Gallic  tempera- 
ment overwhelmed  him;  he  let  the  paper  flutter 
down  upon  the  carpet,  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands,  and  wept. 


412       Learning  the  "Big  Lesson" 

The  chief  stooped  and  picked  up  the  paper,  and, 
with  meticulous  attention  to  neatness,  replaced  it 
in  the  packet.  "Yes,"  he  said,  half  to  himself 
and  half  to  give  point  to  Faverol's  lesson,  "this 
justified  a  warrant  for  instant  arrest,  or  at  least  the 
employment  of  extra  assistance.  If  you  had  not 
been  so  grasping — if  }^ou  had  been  more  frank 
with  me,  there  is  no  doubt  we  could  have  re- 
captured the  three  of  them. 

"As  it  is — Polliter,  the  least  important,  if  the 
records  are  to  be  believed,  is  dead.  The  others  " — 
he  spread  out  his  hands  with  an  expressive  gesture. 
"  And  your  story  has  another  bearing, M  he  went  on. 
"This  Sebastien  Gautil — this — er — Arthur  Aller- 
ton:  did  anything  transpire  to  his  detriment 
at  the  inquiry?  Leave  off  crying,  and  answer 
me." 

Faverol  exhibited  a  pink,  tear-stained  counte- 
nance. "No,  Monsieur,"  he  said  brokenly. 
"They  could  find  out  nothing." 

"And  they  won't,"  his  chief  snapped.  "You 
will  see;  his  money-lending  business  will  prove 
absolutely  aboveboard,  and  *:he  income  from  it 
ample  to  account  for  his  domestic  expenses.  If  he 
was  Van  Langenberg's  partner,  he  kept  the  two 
businesses  separate ;  and  some  bank  will  have  a  big 
deposit  which  will  never  be  claimed.     But  I  believe 


Learning  the  "Big  Lesson"      413 

he  had  nothing  to  do  with  Van  Langenberg,"  he 
added  thoughtfully. 

"Monsieur!"  Faverol  cried,  his  woe-begone 
expression  changing  to  one  of  intense  astonish- 
ment. 

"I  believe,"  his  chief  went  on  doggedly,  "that 
the  'Invisibles'  discovered  in  some  extraordinary 
way  that  Van  Langenberg  was  a  '  fence,'  and  they 
used  him  in  his  capacity  of  shipper  of  wines  to  lure 
their  old  enemy  to  Rotterdam  for  the  purpose  of 
taking  revenge.     I  believe  Gautil  was  'straight' !" 

"But,  Monsieur — the  burglary  at  Seckley  Cot- 
tage: the  three  pictures! — his  mode  of  life!" 

"His  mode  of  life — very  natural.  Events  have 
proved  that  he  had  every  reason  to  be  secretive. 
He  feared  his  old  enemies  would  escape,  and  he 
did  not  want  every  one  to  know  he  was  a  money- 
lender. The  burglary,  the  three  pictures.  Bah! 
Myths,  M.  Faverol.     Myths!" 

"Monsieur!  let  me  redeem  my  character. 
Send  me  to  England.  I  will  prove  they  were  not 
myths." 

"You,  M.  Faverol!  No.  I  shall  entrust  M. 
Lavigne  with  that.  And  then,  only  if  an  inquiry 
into  Arthur  Allerton's  business  seems  to  demand  it. 
I  see  no  reason  in  bringing  unnecessary  misery  into 
the  lives  of  those  two  much-to-be-pitied  ladies  at 


414       Learning  the  "Big  Lesson" 

Seckley  Cottage.  But  let  that  pass.  I  have  a 
simple,  easy  commission  for  you,  M.  Faverol. 
Among  the  numerous  mistakes  you  have  made 
recently,  one  stands  out  exceptionally  clearly. 
You  remember  the  case  of  the  Beche  Noire  which 
you  managed?" 

Faverol  winced;  but  he  answered  humbly, 
"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"Louis,  of  course,  was  burned." 

"Yes,  Monsieur — and  I  wish  to  Heaven  it  had 
happened  sooner,"  Faverol  broke  out  suddenly. 

The  chief  smiled  sourly.  "Well, "  he  said,  " M. 
Lavigne  sent  me  a  report  this  morning,  in  which 
he  says  that,  having  occasion  to  pass  through 
Marleon-sur-Seine  yesterday,  he  thought  he 
recognised  Louis,  alive — in  the  flesh.  If  that  is 
the  case,  the  story  which  the  porter  of  Beche 
Noire  told  is  probably  true,  and  he  is  innocent 
of  the  arson.  Therefore,  for  the  present,  M. 
Faverol,  I  think  I  can  wish  you  good  day.  Go 
and  see  what  you  can  make  of  this  little  problem." 

To  some  men  a  drastic  reprimand  does  a  world 
of  good ;  and,  no  doubt,  the  experienced  chief  bore 
this  in  mind  when  dealing  with  M.  Faverol.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  long  desired  a  legitimate 
opportunity  of  administering  a  severe  "take- 
down" to  the  little  man,  for  the  chief  had  always 


Learning  the  "Big  Lesson"      415 

been  irritated  by  Faverol's  finicking  finesse  and 
unbounded  self-assurance. 

Without  a  word,  Faverol  clicked  his  heels 
together,  saluted  like  an  ordinary  police  con- 
stable, and  departed  to  conduct  the  kind  of  "case" 
usually  entrusted  to  the  veriest  novice. 

He  found  old  Louis — now  George  Martel, 
an  innkeeper — without  much  difficulty;  Marleon- 
sur-Seine  being  but  a  tiny  village.  But  rendered 
cautious  and  diffident  by  his  recent  tribulations, 
Faverol  did  not  at  once  make  himself  known. 

Instead,  he  enlisted  the  assistance  of  the  village 
gendarme,  who  happened  to  be  a  large  and  very 
active  man.  They  approached  the  inn  just  as 
Louis  was  closing  for  the  night. 

The  old  fellow  had  his  fill  of  late  hours  at  the 
Beche  Noire,  and  he  had  formed  a  habit  of  retiring 
to  his  virtuous  slumbers  at  the  earliest  opportune 
moment.  From  a  place  of  concealment  the  two 
police  officers  watched  him  put  up  the  shutters 
on  one  window,  and  then  go  indoors  through  the 
porch  to  obtain  those  for  the  second. 

At  that  moment  an  undersized  little  man  slunk 
round  the  corner  of  the  inn,  glanced  hastily  around, 
and  darted  into  the  porch  after  Louis. 

A  muffled  scream  of  terror  broke  the  stillness  of 


416       Learning  the  "Big  Lesson" 

the  night;  and  the  light  streaming  from  the  inn 
door  went  out.  Faverol  made  a  dash  for  the  porch, 
only  to  trip  headlong  over  a  lithe  body,  which 
seemed  to  fling  itself  from  nowhere  against  his 
ankles. 

The  big  gendarme,  following  a  couple  of  yards 
behind,  recognised  the  well-known  trick,  and  before 
the  man  who  had  tripped  up  Faverol  could  rise,  he 
hurled  himself  upon  him,  and  literally  smothered 
him  in  a  vast  embrace. 

Faverol  had  fallen  light.  Like  an  india-rubber 
ball,  he  sprang  up  and  swung  round  to  the  gen- 
darme's assistance.  There  was  a  click  of  manacles, 
and  in  a  moment  a  helpless,  writhing,  snarling  little 
prisoner  was  dragged  by  the  heels  into  the  lobby  of 
the  inn. 

Groans  greeted  their  entrance.  Bidding  the 
gendarme  keep  close  guard  over  the  captive, 
Faverol  struck  a  match  and  lighted  a  lamp  which 
he  espied  upon  a  big  round  table.  Then,  guided 
by  the  groans,  he  searched  for  Louis. 

He  discovered  him  upon  the  stone-flagged  floor 
of  a  passage  leading  to  the  back  premises.  With 
the  lamp  aloft,  Faverol  gazed  down  at  him.  A 
glance  showed  that  Louis  had  been  stabbed  in  the 
breast  and  was  dying.  But  the  old  fellow  was 
quite  conscious,  and  he  looked  up  at  Faverol  with 


Learning  the  "Big  Lesson"      417 

a  sardonic  grin  of  recognition.     His  eyes  blinked 
furiously. 

"Too  late,  'Favvy,'"  he  gasped  out  jeeringly. 
.  .  .  "But,  hold  on  .  .  .  little  devil  .  .  .  he's  .  .  . 
Jean  .  .  .  'the  Rat'.  ..."  Louis  choked  for 
breath — his  indomitable  old  eyes  blinked  once 
more — then  gazed  fixedly  into  eternity. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ANDRE  GASPARD  REPAYS  A  DEBT 

CAVEROL  straightened  himself,  and  went 
*  swiftly  back  to  the  prisoner.  Holding  the 
lamp  aloft,  he  stared  hard  at  the  cruel,  ratlike  face. 

"Know  him?"  inquired  the  gendarme  laconi- 
cally. 

Know  him!  Yes,  Faverol  knew  him.  But  he 
made  no  reply. 

Inwardly  the  little  police  agent  was  telling  him- 
self that  Lavigne  was  right.  He,  Henri  Faverol, 
was,  indeed,  the  luckiest  man  in  the  service. 
Evidently  Faverol  had  learned  his  lesson.  Barely 
twenty-four  hours  ago  he  would  have  died  before 
acknowledging  that  the  decrepit  old  fossil,  Lavigne, 
could  be  right  in  anything;  and,  certainly,  the  little 
police  agent  would  have  paid  no  tribute  to 
luck. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  thought  of  his  school- 
master, the  chief  of  secret  police,  the  ghost  of  a 
jaunty  smile  wrinkled  Faverol' s  rosy  cheeks. 

418 


Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt  419 

Mrs.  Aubertin  opened  her  eyes  and  gazed 
dreamily  at  a  shaft  of  sunlight  which  had  found  its 
way  past  the  edge  of  the  heavy  window  curtains 
into  the  darkened  room.  Of  late  the  morning 
awakening  had  brought  her  nothing  but  a  feeling 
of  weariness  and  physical  discomfort ;  and  she  had 
been  only  too  thankful  if  uneasy  sleep  had  returned 
to  her  to  dull  the  morbid  fancies  of  her  brain,  until 
Mrs.  Pountney's  knock  and  cheery  voice  an- 
nounced that  she  and  the  breakfast  tray  demanded 
admittance. 

But  to-day  Mrs.  Aubertin  felt  unusually — 
delightfully — refreshed.  She  stretched  her  limbs 
healthily  and  sat  up  in  bed.  The  thin  shaft  of  sun- 
light made  the  dim  room  seem  oppressive;  and 
giving  way  to  a  sudden  craving,  she  flung  off  the 
bedclothes.  Donning  a  warm  dressing-gown, 
she  pulled  aside  the  curtains,  drew  up  the  blind, 
and  leaning  well  out  of  the  low  window,  she  filled 
her  lungs  with  the  delicious  freshness  of  the  morn- 
ing air. 

Beyond  the  orchard  she  could  discern  a  dead- 
white,  "silent"  mist  flooding  the  river  valley; 
but  here,  upon  the  heights,  the  glistening  country- 
side was  bathed  in  the  joyous  light  of  a  bright, 
frosty  sun.  Beneath  the  window  in  the  old- 
fashioned  farmhouse  garden  Mrs.  Pountney,  a  grey 


420  Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt 

shawl  over  her  faded  print  bodice,  her  cheeks  in 
the  crisp  air  more  like  twin  russet  apples  than 
ever,  was  gathering  her  matutinal  bunch  of  late 
flowers,  some  intended  for  the  "parlour"  and 
others  to  make  her  lodger's  breakfast  tray  appear 
more  inviting. 

An  old  "  fit cher"  -coloured  cat  followed  her 
along  the  platted  paths,  rubbing  its  arched  back 
against  its  mistress's  skirts,  and  occasionally,  when 
thrust  away  by  an  impatient  foot,  evincing  a  kit- 
tenish friskiness  ludicrously  out  of  keeping  with 
its  disreputable  appearance. 

Presently  Mrs.  Pountney  glanced  up  and  saw 
her  lodger  at  the  window.  "Well,  I  never!"  she 
exclaimed. 

Mrs.  Aubertin  smiled  at  the  almost  comical  ex- 
pression of  surprise  in  the  old  woman's  face  and  at- 
titude. "  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Pountney, "  she  said. 
"  I  felt  so  wide  awake,  I  really  could  not  stay  in  bed 
another  moment.     Isn't  the  air  delicious?" 

"Yes,  it's  a  rare  mornin'.  And,  m'dear,  I'm 
glad  to  see  you  lookin'  so  fresh  and  bonny  your- 
self. Bless  me!  but  we'll  soon  be  putting  some 
colour  into  your  cheeks  if  you'll  go  on  get  tin'  up 
to  greet  the  sun — as  they  say.  Joe!"  she  called 
out  suddenly.  "If  you've  done  your  breakfast 
come  out  here!" 


Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt  421 

From  the  stone-flagged  kitchen  below  came  the 
sound  of  a  chair  being  pushed  back,  and  in  a  few 
moments  Farmer  Pountney  lumbered  out  into  the 
sunlight. 

"Hist!  missus,"  he  said  in  reproof,  "you'll 
wake  up  the  lady — why!  who  were  you  talkin' 
to?"  he  added,  his  perplexed  glance  roving  round 
the  garden,  and  finally  settling  upon  the  cat. 

His  dame  laughed  merrily.  "Where  are  your 
manners?  "  she  retorted,  giving  him  a  warning  push 
and  pointing  up  at  the  window.  "Look  up  and 
say  'Good  mornm'.'" 

The  farmer  raised  his  eyes,  and  his  rubicund  face, 
while  exhibiting  traces  of  a  most  engaging  shyness, 
lit  up  with  pleasure,  until  it  seemed  as  bright  as  the 
sun  itself.  He  gave  vent  to  the  same  surprised 
remark  as  his  wife  had  made.  "Well,  I  never!" 
he  exclaimed.  "  But  I'm  glad  to  see  ye.  The  top 
of  the  mornin'  to  ye,  marm." 

Mrs.  Aubertin's  eyes  grew  a  little  moist  as  she 
replied  to  his  greeting.  The  simple,  whole-hearted 
interest  displayed  by  the  old  couple  in  her  unusual 
early  rising  touched  her,  and  added  to  the  gratitude 
she  felt  for  their  never-failing  kindness  and  tactful 
sympathy.  And,  somehow,  the  sight  of  their 
wholesome,  conscience-free  faces  smiling  up  at  her 
made  the  poor  lady  feel  a  trifle  less  lonely. 


422    Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt 

"What  lovely  flowers!"  she  said,  anxious  to 
divert  their  attention  from  herself.  "The  very- 
sight  of  them  makes  me  want  to  bury  my  face 
in  them;  they  look  so  sweet  and  refreshing. " 

"Do  they,  m'dear?"  returned  the  practical  Mrs. 
Pountney  at  once.  "Then  I'll  bring  the  bunch  up 
straight  away  with  your  can  of  hot  water."  She 
walked  up  the  path  towards  the  house. 

The  farmer  followed  her  closely,  and  Mrs. 
Aubertin  guessed  from  his  behaviour  that  he  was 
meditating  some  mischief.  Perhaps,  like  the  old 
cat,  who  had  disappeared  into  the  kitchen  upon 
thieving  intent,  the  crispness  of  the  morning  or  the 
jollity  of  the  occasion  had  got  into  his  blood  and 
banished  the  years.  Whatever  the  cause,  as 
they  passed  beneath  Mrs.  Aubertin's  window,  the 
old  man  grasped  his  dame  by  the  middle  and 
hoisted  her  high  above  his  head. 

"Don't  wait  for  the  hot  water,  marm, "  he 
cried  out.  "Take  the  posy  now."  And  in  spite 
of  her  struggles,  he  held  his  wife  aloft  until  she  had 
handed  the  flowers  to  Mrs.  Aubertin,  who  reached 
down  to  grasp  them.  Then  the  farmer  lowered  his 
burden  and  fled  like  a  schoolboy,  with  hunched 
shoulders. 

"Well,  I  never!"  gasped  his  indignant  spouse. 
She  raised  her  flushed  cheeks  to  the  window  for 


Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt    423 

sympathy  in  her  discomfiture;  but,  rinding  in  the 
invalid's  wistful  face  that  unmistakable,  piteous 
longing  to  laugh  really  heartily  for  once,  she 
choked  down  her  wrath,  which,  indeed,  was  not  a 
little  assumed,  for  she  was  vastly  proud  of  her 
husband's  strength. 

"  But  he  does  startle  a  body  so  with  his  tricks, " 
she  said,  as  if  in  excuse  for  her  momentary  cross- 
ness. "  But  that's  Joe  all  over,  and  he  don't  know 
his  own  strength.  He  always  was  up  to  some  trick 
or  other,  ever  since  him  and  me  started  walkin'  out 
together.  I  was  but  a  snippet  in  them  days,  and 
now  I'm  twelve  stun  if  I'm  an  ounce. 

"Now,  m'dear, "  she  added  authoritatively, 
"you  pop  your  head  in.  You'll  be  catchin'  cold 
else.  You  ain't  used  to  fresh  air  on  an  empty 
stomach.  I'll  bring  your  water  up  straight  away, 
and  I'll  have  your  breakfast  ready  as  soon  as  ever 
you're  ready  for  it." 

With  that  Mrs.  Pountney  disappeared  indoors, 
whence  loud  shoo-ings  and  other  telltale  sounds, 
followed  by  a  glimpse  of  the  fitcher-coloured  cat  as 
it  streaked  across  the  garden,  told  Mrs.  Aubertin 
that  if  a  biped  had  for  the  moment  escaped  punish- 
ment, a  four-footed  delinquent,  at  all  events,  had 
received  just  reward  for  its  plaguy  ways. 

It  was  the  first  time  for  many  weeks  that  Mrs. 


424  Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt 

Aubertin  had  come  downstairs  for  breakfast,  and 
somewhat  to  her  surprise,  she  felt  distinctly- 
brighter  and  better  physically  for  the  novelty. 
But  she  found  the  extra  time  put  at  her  disposal  by 
her  early  rising  likely  to  prove  a  little  tedious,  and 
she  soon  began  to  long  for  the  appearance  of  Mrs. 
Gautil,  who  had  sent  a  message  overnight  inti- 
mating that  she  would  call  for  her  friend  about 
eleven  o'clock  to  take  her  for  a  drive.  The  two 
ladies  had  seen  very  little  of  each  other  for  some 
considerable  time  past,  for  Mrs.  Gautil  had  been 
(mercifully,  as  it  proved)  fully  occupied  with  the 
thousand  and  one  details  of  business  which  her 
husband's  death  and  burial  had  thrust  upon  her. 

After  clearing  away  the  breakfast  things  Mrs. 
Pountney's  keen  eyes  detected  the  much-dreaded 
signs  of  "moping."  She  made  no  remark,  but 
twenty  minutes  later  she  reappeard  in  the  parlour 
carrying  Mrs.  Aubertin's  outdoor  wraps. 

"M'dear,"  the  old  woman  said,  "God  A'mighty 
sends  us  all  the  flimsy -whimsies  at  times ;  but  never 
a  better  doctor  did  He  send  than  His  blessed  sun- 
shine to  cure  'em.  And  this  room  wants  cleanin* 
and  dustin'  summat  terrible,"  she  added  naively. 
"The  wind  this  last  week's  sent  a  mort  o'  dust 
all  over  the  place.  So,  m'dear,  you  put  these  on, 
while  I  go  and  fetch  your  boots. " 


Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt  425 

Seeing  that  there  was  no  help  for  it,  Mrs. 
Aubertin  acquiesced  in  the  kindly  expulsion  from 
the  house.  She  wandered  somewhat  aimlessly 
along  the  farm  approach  into  the  high  road;  but, 
coming  to  a  part  where  the  tall  hedges  cast  long, 
chilly  shadows,  she  turned  to  the  left  down  a  lane 
running  between  high  red  sandstone  banks  towards 
the  larch  coppice.  Here  she  promenaded  up  and 
down,  basking  in  the  sun's  genial  warmth. 

As  she  approached  the  coppice  for  the  third  time, 
a  man  emerged  from  among  the  trees,  and,  leaning 
upon  the  iron  hurdles  separating  the  coppice  from 
the  lane,  stared  at  her  intently.  The  stranger's 
face  was  clean-shaven,  and  he  wore  large  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles.  His  garb  and  a  japanned-tin 
case  suspended  by  a  yellow  strap  to  his  shoulders 
suggested  the  geologist,  or,  perhaps,  the  moss- 
specimen  enthusiast. 

But  Mrs.  Aubertin  knew  him.  At  the  very 
moment  of  his  appearance  she  had  been  thinking 
of  him,  hoping  and  praying  that  he,  the  man  whom 
once  (was  it  ages  ago?)  she  had  loved  almost  to  the 
point  of  madness,  the  man  who  had  been  the  cause 
of  all  her  distress  of  mind  and  body,  who  she  more 
than  half- suspected,  was  concerned  in  the  death  of 
her  friend's  husband — yes,  she  had  been  hoping  and 
praying  that  he  had  gone  out  of  her  life  for  ever. 


426  Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt 

He  vaulted  the  hurdles  and  strode  swiftly 
towards  her,  his  dark,  burning  eyes,  from  which  he 
had  snatched  the  spectacles,  gazing  fixedly  at  her 
in  a  way  that,  because  she  could  not  misunder- 
stand it,  made  her  shudder. 

"Ninette!"  he  burst  out  ardently. 

She  raised  her  hands  as  if  to  ward  him  off. 
"Oh,  why  have  you  come?"  she  gasped,  knowing 
all  the  while  what  his  answer  would  be. 

"You  ask  me  that!"  he  replied  in  a  low,  impas- 
sioned voice.  "My  Heaven!"  he  cried  hoarsely. 
"Why  have  I  come!  Because  I  am  no  longer  a 
clod — a  brute  beast — an  insane  fool.  .  .  .  Because 
my  heart  is  alive,  alive! — when  I  thought  it  had 
died  within  me.  .  .  .  Because  I  love  you — I  burn, 
with  the  tortured  cravings  of  twenty  years,  to  clasp 
you  in  my  arms  again — to  kiss  you — to  be  kissed. 
.  .  .  Ah,  why  do  you  shrink  from  me?" 

He  took  a  step  forward,  stretching  out  his  arms 
with  a  gesture  of  ineffable  tenderness  and  entreaty. 

"Ninette ! "  he  whispered ;  then  his  arms  dropped 
to  his  sides,  his  eyes  glazed,  and  he  became  rigid. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  expression  in  her  deathly  white 
face  had  robbed  him  of  life. 

She  struggled  to  speak,  but  could  not.  Strangely, 
she  had  no  fear.  She  hardly  saw  him,  for  there  had 
come  to  her  a  vision  of  a  lamp-lit  room  which 


Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt  427 

vibrated  with  the  last  low  note  of  a  man's  voice — 
and  a  single  chord  of  haunting,  torturing  sadness. 
.  .  .  Ah,  too  late!  .  .  .  Then,  the  sadness  had 
been  all  hers;  now,  perhaps,  it  would  be  all  his — 
even  so  long  as  he  lived.  He  had  come  too  late.  A 
just  retribution?  Ay — it  may  be.  But,  woman- 
like, she  found  it  in  her  heart  to  pity  him. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  her  pity,  her  heart  throbbed 
with  relief  and  gladness.  But  how  could  she 
tell  him — how  explain,  and  make  him  accept  the 
fact  that  now  she,  in  turn,  had  lost  utterly  the 
power  to  love  him?  .  .  .  that  all  she  desired  was 
that  she  might  never  see  him  again  .  .  .  might  be 
allowed,  mercifully,  to  forget  him. 

Suddenly  Gaspard's  rigid  attitude  relaxed. 
His  eyes  brightened.  He  seemed  alive  again.  He 
glanced  around  him,  keen  and  alert,  his  whole 
aspect  changed  almost  beyond  belief. 

"I  have  come  to  say  good-bye,"  he  said,  in  the 
masterful  tone  which  she  remembered  so  well. 

Ninette  stared  at  him  with  uncomprehending 
amazement. 

"It  is  better  so,"  he  added  shortly.  "You 
must  understand  that." 

"Yes,"  she  murmured  dully,  "it  is  better  so. 
I  understand  that."  She  thought  she  was  begin- 
ning to  understand. 


428  Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt 

"Not  lau  revoir,'"  he  said  presently.  "It  is 
*  good-bye ' — for  ever." 

Tears  welled  up  in  her  eyes.  "Andre!"  she 
faltered,  "if  you  .  .  .  will  you  —  oh!  Kiss  me 
once — before  you  go. " 

He  raised  his  cap,  leaned  forward  and  kissed 
her  upon  the  forehead.  Then  he  raised  his  cap 
again,  bowed,  and  strode  swiftly  towards  the 
coppice. 

Through  tear-dimmed  eyes  Ninette  watched  his 
sturdy  figure  disappear  among  the  trees.  Not 
once  did  he  glance  back.  It  was,  indeed,  "good- 
bye. "  Something  told  her,  beyond  all  doubt,  that 
Andre  Gaspard  had  gone  out  of  her  life  for  ever! 

Was  it  so?  A  physician,  a  brain  specialist, 
might  have  said  that  time  alone  would  prove  her 
right  or  wrong.  Let  us  leave  the  answer  to  Time ; 
and  let  us  leave  to  a  grateful  woman  not  that  hate 
which  she  had  begun  to  feel  would  be  hers,  but 
some  kindly  thoughts  for  the  man  who,  by  saying 
"good-bye"  to  her  thus  in  the  sun-bathed  country 
lane,  had  perhaps  repaid  her  a  thousand  times  over 
the  debt  which  he  had  once  said  with  distressing 
callousness  he  could  never  repay. 

Long  after  Gaspard  had  gone,  Mrs.  Aubertin 
stood  quite  still,  gazing  at  the  coppice  with  unsee- 
ing eyes.     She  felt  dazed;  her  thoughts  refused 


Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt    429 

to  concentrate  themselves.  Yet  she  wanted  to 
think — she  must  think.  Mechanically  she  looked 
round  at  the  bank,  seeking  for  a  place  to  sit 
upon. 

A  few  yards  away  the  red  sandstone  had  been 
worn  into  a  succession  of  steps  by  the  feet  of 
children  climbing  up  to  gather  the  blackberries 
which  but  a  short  while  ago  had  ripened  in  the 
hedge  crowning  the  bank.  With  a  sigh  she  seated 
herself  upon  the  lowest  ledge;  and  the  minutes 
passed  by  unheeded. 

She  was  aroused  from  her  abstraction  by  the 
sound  of  horses'  hoofs,  and,  turning  her  head 
round,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Gautil  equipage 
as  it  drove  past  the  top  of  the  lane  towards  Penny 
Farm. 

Ninette  rose,  glanced  once,  instinctively,  at  the 
coppice;  then  she  gave  herself  a  queer  little  inde- 
scribable shake,  and  walked  briskly  up  the  lane 
towards  the  high  road.  Already  some  colour 
had  come  into  her  cheeks,  her  limbs  were  steady 
and  her  eyes  bright.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the 
numbing  burden  which  had  been  surely  crushing 
both  mind  and  body  had  at  last  been  lifted.  It 
should  remain  for  ever  buried  in  the  dark  coppice 
at  the  end  of  that  sun-bathed  country  lane.  She 
would  forget  the  past  and  strive  to  extract  from 


43°  Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt 

the  future  some  of  the  arrears  of  happiness  which 
were  owing  to  her. 

The  victoria  was  waiting  in  the  road  by  the 
farm  gate.  Hatt's  stolid  face  relaxed  into  a  kindly 
smile  of  welcome  as  Mrs.  Aubertin  approached. 
He  touched  his  forehead  with  that  military  pre- 
cision which  he  reserved  for  those  who  found 
favour  in  his  eyes,  and  informed  Mrs.  Aubertin  that 
his  mistress  had  gone  in  search  of  her  to  the  farm, 
but — with  a  nourish  of  his  whip  in  the  direction  of 
the  house — that  she  was  "just  coming  along." 
Ninette  passed  through  the  gate  and  went  to  meet 
her. 

Mrs.  Gautil  made  a  pathetic  little  picture  in  her 
widow's  weeds.  But  she  carried  herself  bravely, 
and,  save  that  she  appeared  a  little  more  frail,  she 
exhibited  no  signs  of  the  shock  which  her  husband's 
death  had  caused  her. 

Trevor  Wyer  had  been  a  tower  of  strength.  He 
it  was  who  had  gone  to  Rotterdam  and  brought 
the  body  of  Sebastien  Gautil  to  its  final  resting-- 
place  in  the  tiny  churchyard  of  Ardley.  He  it  was 
who  had  laboured,  and  laboured  successfully,  to 
shield  the  widow  from  the  misery  which  would 
have  overwhelmed  her  had  the  police  suspicions 
of  her  dead  husband's  rectitude  been  allowed  to 
reach  her  ears. 


Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt    431 

And,  perhaps,  a  pitying  Almighty,  realising  in 
His  omniscience  that  all  could  not  have  been  evil  in 
the  heart  of  a  man  who  had  kept  a  wife's  love 
throughout  the  dark  years  of  their  married  life — • 
perhaps  He  looked  down  upon  the  frail  little 
widow  and  granted  her  an  especial  solace  in  her 
great  grief. 

"How  well  you  look!"  Mrs.  Gautil  greeted  her 
friend.  Mrs.  Aubertin  smiled  happily.  Then, 
without  replying,  she  stooped  a  little  and  kissed 
the  elder  lady  upon  both  cheeks.  They  had  kissed 
often  since  the  acquaintanceship  between  them 
had  ripened  into  intimacy ;  but  Mrs.  Gautil  flushed 
with  pleasure  at  the  unmistakable  depth  of  affec- 
tion underlying  the  embrace. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  with  a  pathetic  little 
sigh,  "when  Celeste  leaves  me,  I  shall  be  a 
lonely  old  woman.  If  only  you  would  change  your 
mind  and  come  and  live  with  me  then!  Ah,  that 
sounds  selfish,  but " 

"I  understand,"  Ninette  interrupted  her,  smil- 
ing mistily.  "I,  too,  am  lonely.  I  will  come. 
And  we  will  try  to  make  each  other  happy. " 

"God  willing,"  Mrs.  Gautil  replied  reverently. 

Just  as  the  sun  gained  the  final  mastery  over 
the  morning  mist  a  fisherman  in  wading-trousers 


432  Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt 

and  heavy  brogues,  with  a  rod  flicking  over  his 
shoulder,  came  tramping  up  the  river  bank  to 
Folley  Ford. 

For  a  while  he  stood  pensively  watching  the 
"dimples"  made  by  a  school  of  grayling  rising  at 
the  flies  floating  down  the  long  gravel  ripple  at 
the  head  of  the  ford.  Then  he  waded  in  to  the 
middle  of  the  river  and  began  casting  his  line. 
Half  an  hour  passed ;  in  turn,  every  likely  fly  in  his 
old  fly-book  was  offered — and  in  vain.  The  creel 
upon  the  fisherman's  back  was  empty.  He  reeled 
in  his  line  and  looked  around  him,  almost  furtively. 
Then  his  hand  went  to  a  pocket;  a  small  flat  tin 
box  was  produced ;  and,  from  among  the  bran  and 
its  wriggling  companions,  a  white  maggot  was 
extracted. 

With  an  "Ugh!"  expressive  of  his  disgust,  the 
fisherman  impaled  the  grub  upon  his  fly.  Then 
he  stirred  up  the  gravel  with  his  brogues  and  let 
his  bait  float  down  the  ripple  towards  the  fastidious 
grayling. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  he  had  caught  ten  fish, 
and  so  engrossed  was  he  in  his  sport  that  he  failed 
to  become  aware  of  the  dainty  figure  of  a  tall  girl, 
dressed  in  black,  who  had  come  down  the  bank 
behind  him  and  was  watching  him  in  amusement. 
Trevor  Wyer  hooked  another  fish,  played  it  for  half 


Gaspard  Repays  a  Debt         433 

a  minute,  lost  it,  and  uttered  the  remark  adequate 
to  the  occasion.  The  girl  broke  into  a  merry  peal 
of  laughter,  and  he  looked  round  with  a  guilty  start. 

"Hello ! "  he  cried.     " Oh !  it's  you,  is  it? " 

She  laughed  again.  "I  believe  you  are  dis- 
appointed," she  replied.  "Come  out  and  say 
'good  morning. ' " 

"Right-oh, "  he  returned.  "But,  I  say — wait 
half  a  jiffy.     I  only  want  two  to  make  the  dozen. " 

"Not  another  minute,"  she  retorted,  with  mock 
severity.  "  I  saw  that  fly  you  were  using.  Poacher! 
If  you  don't  come  at  once,  I'll — I'll  tell  Farmer 
Pountney!" 

Wyer's  jolly,  sun-tanned  face  assumed  a  look  of 
comical  dismay.  He  reeled  in  his  line  hastily  and 
waded  ashore.  "You  rogue!"  he  threatened. 
"I'll  punish  you  for  that." 

And  the  future  Countess  of  Janesford  accepted 
her  punishment  with  exemplary  meekness. 


AFTERWORD 

TT  cannot  be  denied  that  this  story  has  introduced 
■*■  many  characters  and  presented  many  scenes 
which,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  are  of  a  somewhat 
unpleasant  nature;  and  it  would  be,  perhaps,  more 
or  less  gratifying  to  all  concerned  were  the  same 
story  concluded  with  the  little  comedy  of  two 
lovers  at  the  end  of  the  previous  chapter. 

But  in  this  world  there  are  many  who,  like  M. 
Faverol,  are  insatiable  in  their  craving  to  gain 
every  jot  of  information  possible. 

They  will  exclaim:  "Yes,  that  is  all  very  well, 
but  what  we  want  to  know  is,  What  became 
of  Andre  Gaspard?  Did  one  of  those  mysterious 
mental  attacks  which  suddenly  changed  him  from 
an  insane  vengeance-seeker  into  a  human  being 
receptive  of  the  softer  passions  and  kindly  feel- 
ings towards  his  fellow-creatures,  and,  vice  versa, 
did  those  curious  changes  in  his  personality  recur? 
Did  he  return  to  bring  anxiety  and  misery  to 
Ninette?     Or  did  M.  Lavigne  raise  M.  Faverol's 

434 


Afterword  435 

jealousy  to  fever-pitch  by  capturing  the  famous 
leader  of  the  'Invisibles'  and  re-conveying  him 
whence  he  had  escaped?" 

The  answer  to  both  questions  is,  No. 

So  far  as  Lavigne  was  concerned,  Andre  Gas- 
pard  might,  indeed,  have  been  ''invisible." 

But,  nearly  twenty  years  after  the  events  nar- 
rated in  this  story  occurred,  and  before  the  sound  of 
the  motor-horn  came  to  disturb  the  peace  and  quiet 
of  the  Janesford  countryside  and  jangle  the  sen- 
sitive nerves  of  the  skittish  Primrose's  equally  skit- 
tish equine  successors,  Trevor  Wyer  (long  since 
become  Lord  Janesford),  in  scanning  the  contents  of 
a  Sydney-side  newspaper  sent  to  him  by  his  eldest 
son,  who  at  the  time  was  learning  self-reliance 
and  the  benefit  of  healthy  labour  in  Australia, 
came  upon  the  following  paragraph: 

"A  well  known  'sun-downer'  {i.e.,  tramp)  has 
died  recently  in  the  hospital  at  Woolabarra.  For 
many  years  past  he  has  been  'on  the  wallaby'  up 
and  down  the  back  country  beyond  the  Bennet 
Mountains.  His  antecedents  have  always  been  a 
source  of  much  speculation ;  for  there  was  no  doubt 
that  the  old  'sun-downer'  was  a  very  highly  edu- 
cated man  and  had  seen  better  times. 

"Although  of  an  extremely  powerful  build,  he 


436  Afterword 

exhibited  a  peaceful,  and  even  gentle,  disposition, 
amounting  almost  to  'simpleness, '  which  suggests 
a  harmless  brain  affection.  But  his  brethren  of  the 
'swag*  left  him  severely  alone ;  for  it  is  said  that  on 
several  occasions,  being  chaffed  beyond  endurance 
in  the  shearing-sheds,  he  had  first  felled  the  offender 
with  a  well-directed  blow,  and  then  proceeded  to 
extract  a  tooth — preferably  a  sound  one — from  the 
fallen  man's  jaws  with  no  other  aid  than  his  finger 
and  thumb. 

"A  glance  at  the  thumb  muscles  of  the  'sun- 
downer' made  this  story  less  incredible  than  it 
might  appear.  The  name  of  this  'sun-downer' 
never  transpired;  but  his  feat  had  procured  for 
him  the  nickname  of  'the  dentist.' 

"He  was  also  called  'Old  Canary-bird,'  for,  to 
the  last,  he  possessed  a  remarkably  fine  voice;  and 
on  the  sheep  runs  where  he  was  employed  in  shear- 
ing, many  squatters  made  the  unusual  habit  of 
inviting  '  Old  Canary-bird'  into  the  house  in  the 
evening  for  the  purpose  of  entertaining  their  ladies 
or  any  guests  who  might  be  visiting  the 
station.' ' 

"By  Jove!"  Lord  Janesford  exclaimed,  hand- 
ing the  newspaper  to  his  wife.  "Read  that, 
Celeste,  and  say  who  it  reminds  you  of!     H'm, 


Afterword  437 

I  wonder, "  he  went  on,  musingly.     "And  I  never 
got  that  story  out  of  him!" 

Possibly  those  who  are  "  budding  Faverols" 
will  not  wonder,  but  will  draw  their  own  con- 
clusions! 


The  End. 


The  Torch  of 
Life 

By 

Rachel  S.  Macnamara 

Author  of  "  The  Fringe  of  the  Desert " 

12°.     $1.35  net 

With  The  Fringe  of  the  Desert  Miss  Macnamara 
achieved  an  immediate  success.  Her  new  story 
opens  with  Titian  Fleury  being  informed  of  her 
husband's  death.  For  ten  years  she  has  been  the 
wife  of  a  man  hopelessly  paralyzed  owing  to  an 
accident  on  their  wedding  day.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-nine  she  finds  herself  free  to  discover  the 
world  of  which  she  has  heard  men  speak.  She 
has  ten  spurned  and  thwarted  years  to  avenge. 
Her  ingenuous  and  impulsive  nature  cries  aloud 
for  happiness  and  love.  Miss  Macnamara  has 
been  justly  praised  for  her  wonderful  descriptions 
of  the  Bast.  In  her  new  novel  the  Venetian 
scenes  are  equally  vivid,  being  full  of  the  life 
and  color  of  the  South. 


Matthew  Hargraves 

By 

S.  G.  Tallentyre 

Author  of  "Bassett,"  "Life  of  Voltaire,"  etc. 
/2°.     $1.35 

To  those  discriminating  readers  of  fiction 
who  put  human  interest  above  the  eccentric 
and  exceptional,  this  new  book  by  S.  G. 
Tallentyre,  recounting  with  rare  fidelity  the 
progress  through  life  of  Matthew  Hargraves, 
son  of  the  portly  landlord  of  the  Hope  and 
Anchor,  with  all  the  qualities  one  respects 
and  the  limitations  one  recognizes  in  the 
average  man,  will  afford  delightful  hours. 
The  delicate  way  in  which  the  author  con- 
veys to  the  reader  the  sense  of  growing 
sympathy  between  Matthew  and  the  girl 
whom  he  and  his  wife  have  taken  into  their 
coldly  correct  household  is  a  refreshing  escape 
from  the  clumsy,  or  even  gross,  manner  in 
which  many  writers  of  fiction,  with  an 
artistry  less  perfect,  would  have  done  vio- 
lence to  the  situation.  But  the  supreme 
achievement  of  the  author's  artistry  is  to 
have  made  a  commonplace  man  thoroughly 
interesting. 


The 

Folk  of  Furry  Farm 

By 

K.  F.  Purdon 

With  an  Introduction  by 

Geo.  A.  Birmingham 

12°.     $135  net 

Very 

little  has  hitherto   been   heard 

in    modern    Irish    fiction    of    the    great 

midland 

plains   of   Meath,   which   Miss 

Purdon 

has   marked    in   this   book  for 

her   own.      She    has,    in    a    sense,    dis- 

covered 

a   peasantry   which   is  new  to 

English 

readers.       Its      characteristic 

pathos 

and    humor    run    through    her 

story  of  life  in  Ardenoo. 

Wild  Honey 

By 
Cynthia  Stockley 

Author  of  "  Poppy,"  "  The  Claw,"  "Wander- 
foot,"  etc. 

12°.    $1.35 

Few  authors  have  ever  equalled 
Cynthia  Stockley  in  the  quality  of 
vivid  description.  Her  South  Africa 
lives,  and  breathes  an  undeniable  call 
to  the  reader,  and  her  people  are  real 
people  who  take  a  certain  place  in 
one's  memory. 

These  stories  throb  with  the  spirit 
of  South  Africa — that  land  of  romance, 
mystery,  and  passion. 

G.  P,  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


]fB  329 


M101993 


'  / 


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